









LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. ftZjt, Copyright No. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




A RACE WITH 

t • J 

HURRICANE 

AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 

ALICE MIRIAM ROUNDY 


THE 

Hbbcy press 

PUBLISHERS 

114 

FIFTH AVENUE 

Condon NEW YORK Montreal 


4A 


93716 


Library Oonpre**! 

two Comes Recewco! 
DEC 26 1900 

&&&&*" 

J&3J.0.3.& 

SECOND COPY 

Oelmrat to 

ORDER DIVISION 

IAN 11 1901 

' ^ o\ 

Copyright, 1900, 

by 

THE 

Hbb ey press 

in 

the 

United States 

and 

Great Britain. 

r 


All Rights Reserved. 


TO 

MY MOTHER, 


A. M. R. 










A 

































♦ 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A Race with a Hurricane 9 

The Double-Barreled Basket 29 

“ The Great Father John ” 43 

Romantic Adventures of a Fox Terrier 61 

The Don Silvestro Choir-Book 83 











95S 


A Race with a Hurricane. 





- L! 













- - ras 



A RACE WITH A HURRICANE, 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


A Race with a Hurricane. 

The steamer moved slowly through the vivid 
sea that was motionless as glass. Now and 
then, bevies of startled flying-fish, fluttering up 
from the depths and skimming away into the 
distance, with their transparent blue tails just 
grazing the surface, left a long line of scratches 
upon it. The north wind breathed lightly 
through the rigging, as if asleep. The sun was 
the gentlest smile of the semi-tropical heavens. 

There were but few passengers aboard the 
Victoria, a small steamer which made only oc- 
casional voyages to Nassau. Of these, all but 
two, who were in the bow, were seated under an 
awning in the stern playing a game that called 
forth peals of laughter. The two in the bow 
9 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


were Audrey Forrester, a girl, and Mrs. Rogers, 
a middle-aged woman. 

Audrey was sitting on a coil of rope, leaning 
against a fluke of the anchor. Whenever she 
thought herself observed, she pretended to read, 
but, at other times, sat drearily gazing over the 
sea, with an expression of utterly broken pride. 
Mrs. Rogers was restlessly pacing the forward 
deck and gazing over the sea with an anxiety 
that she seemed unable to control. Gradually, 
the distress of each became evident to the other, 
and the mind of each began to detach itself from 
its own trouble and turn, with a desire to relieve, 
toward that of the other. 

Suddenly, the captain stepped out of his cabin 
and stood looking down the awning-covered 
vista to the stern, where a group of sailors were 
mending a heap of canvas. Mrs. Rogers 
swiftly approached him and began a low-toned 
appeal. The captain, listening with increasing 
ungraciousness, gradually turned more and more 
away from her till she addressed her words to 
the back of his head. Yet he had the air of con- 
sidering himself very patient with her. Fin- 
ally, without looking at her, he answered her 
shortly, and walked away to the sailors whom he 
had been watching. 


to 


A Race with a Hurricane, 


During this little scene, Audrey turned her 
gaze from the sea to Mrs. Roger’s face. In 
spite of its trouble it was full of decision and 
common-sense. Her eyes, the bluest and soft- 
est that Audrey ever had seen, were bright with 
the courage that often has looked on danger 
and never has quailed. In her whole air was 
that expression of kindness toward others and 
sympathy, which comes of broad experience. 
Audrey’s aching heart went out to her. 

“I could talk to her!” she thought. 

As Mrs. Rogers came back from her interview 
with the captain, she looked so disheartened that, 
involuntarily, Audrey rose to comfort her. But 
just then, Susy Merwin ran lightly down the 
deck and threw herself between them. Susy 
was a schoolmate and friend of Audrey, and 
from forecastle to cabin, the most popular per- 
son aboard ship. Her hair and complexion 
were so brilliantly blonde, her laugh so gay and 
frequent, that she always brought the thought 
of sunshine and flowers and summer weather. 
Mrs. Rogers was the only one who was not 
attracted to her, and she had no stronger founda- 
tions for her dislike than the fact that Susy’s 
deep-set eyes had a furtive expression, and that. 



A Race with a Hurricane. 


at times, she had a peculiarly intent way of look- 
ing out of the corner of them. 

Susy never left Audrey long alone, nor ever 
staid with her long. She continually fluttered 
up to her to bestow a light caress and ask her 
how she felt, and why she did not come and 
play games and what was she thinking about, 
and continually fluttered away. 

“Poky Audrey!” she cried. “Do come and 
play ‘Hanging.’ Mrs. Rogers, make her come! 
She used to take the lead in everything and be 
so proud that you couldn’t touch her majesty 
with a ten-foot pole. Now, she just sits and 
mopes and hangs her head.” 

“Please do not ask me, Susy,” pleaded Au- 
drey. “Indeed, I would rather read.” 

“Read !” exclaimed Susy, with a sidelong 
glance. Then, crowding against Mrs. Rogers, 
she whispered: 

“Do you think that she is going to die?” 

Mrs. Rogers stared in astonishment, for, 
although Audrey was pale and sad, she certainly 
was a vigorous young woman. Susy, hastily 
averting her eyes, added, in a whisper: 

“Don’t tell her I asked,” and was gone. 

Hitherto, Mrs. Rogers, who never had seen 
either of the girls before this voyage, had done 
\2 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


no more than greet them pleasantly, as they 
passed. Now, she determined to draw Audrey 
into conversation. But before she could speak, 
Audrey, in a gentle, controlled manner remark- 
able in one so young, said to her: 

“You are in trouble. Won’t you let me help 
you if I can?” 

Mrs. Roger’s keen eyes looked steadily into 
the very depths of Audrey’s. Satisfied with 
what she saw there, she asked: 

“Do you know what it means, at this season, 
in these waters, when the sea is like glass for 
three days and the breeze comes steadily from 
the north?” 

“A quick voyage,” replied Audrey. 

“It means a hurricane. My husband was a 
sea-captain and I have sailed many voyages with 
him through these waters. I studied naviga- 
tion with him. I know what I am talking about. 
The captain of this steamer is making his first 
voyage in this direction and does not know into 
what danger he is running. I have implored 
him to cram his furnaces and get out of the 
track, or tear for the harbor. But he will not 
listen to me.” 

“How can we get out of its track?” asked 
Audrey. 

J3 


A Race with a Hurricane* 

“Do you, a native of Nassau, ask that?” 

“I am going to Nassau for the first time in 
twelve years/’ answered Audrey, with a sudden 
return of the hopeless expression which had 
disappeared when she began to talk to Mrs. 
Rogers. “I have been at school in New York, 
or visiting ever since my mother died. I gradu- 
ated last spring.” 

“This is the worst season you could choose to 
go back.” 

“I know that. But my father has just re- 
turned from England, where he has been for 
more than a year, and he wants to see me. 
Please tell me about the hurricane.” 

“It travels in circles like a great whirlpool, 
sometimes five hundred miles wide,” replied 
Mrs. Rogers, straining her eyes in the direction 
whence she expected it to come. “For this rea- 
son it cannot move faster than twenty miles an 
hour. It is possible to calculate the coming of 
one twenty-four hours beforehand, and keep out 
of its way — if you know the track. My hus- 
band never was caught in one. We followed all 
the way just behind the terrible one of ’93. 
This captain will not listen to me. And the 
result will be that, by this time to-morrow, we 
all will be at the bottom of the sea; for if he 
U 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


can’t keep out of a hurricane he never can bring 
us through one — in this steamer.” 

“He must be very obstinate,” remarked Au- 
drey, “because it is perfectly evident that you 
know what you are talking about.” 

She spoke so unemotionally that Mrs. Rogers 
was astonished. 

“Ah!” exclaimed that lady, “you do not real- 
ize the danger. People are like that in their 
first earthquake. Yet you look as though you 
had imagination.” 

“If one is not particularly anxious to live,” 
replied Audrey, “death does not seem terrible. 
Hawthorne says it may be like the waking from 
a bad dream. I always think of it in that way.” 

Mrs. Rogers perceived that she was speaking 
sincerely, without any thought of effect. 

“How old are you?” asked Mrs. Rogers. 

“Eighteen.” 

“Why are you not particularly anxious to 
live ?” 

A brilliant rose color flashed into Audrey’s 
face and then flashed out, leaving even her lips 
pale. She waited until she felt that she could 
answer quietly, but with the opening of her 
lips, the words burst forth with tragic intensity: 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


“I am tainted through and through and 
through !” 

“With what?” asked Mrs. Rogers gently. 

“My mother’s grandmother !” replied Au- 
drey, with an expression of deepest anguish. 
“I must talk about her to some one before I see 
papa, or I shall burst out about her to him and I 
am forbidden to do that ! I do not see how I can 
help it when he reminds me of the motto he gave 
me, ‘Noblesse oblige / and asks me if I have 
made it the key of all my actions as he bade 
me. He always told me, when he was teaching 
me to be proud of my ancestors and their 'golden 
deeds/ that I must not ask about her. I did not 
care or think much about her till — on my seven- 
teenth birthday — ” She faltered and her voice 
broke. Crushing back the tears, she pulled a 
slender gold chain from about her neck, where it 
was hidden under her gown, opened a long, 
flat silk bag attached to it, and slipped out two 
papers. Thrusting these into Mrs. Rogers’ 
hand, she added : 

“Read the little one first.” 

They were dated and mailed from Nassau. 

“My dear Girl”— ran the first — “I was an 
intimate friend of your mother. When she was 

*6 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


about to die, she asked me to forward the en- 
closed paper so that you might get it on your 
seventeenth birthday. I do so now, in accord- 
ance with her request. She wished me to warn 
you that on no account must your father know 
anything about these letters. For prudential 
reasons I can sign myself only as, 

“Your Mother’s Friend/’ 

“My darling Daughter” — ran the second 
letter — “Do not let your father know of this 
letter. He wishes you to remain in ignorance of 
the secret which I, with the clearness of sight 
which comes to the dying, perceive that you 
should know. It is this : My grandmother 
was a full-blooded Congo negress, one of the 
first to be rescued from the slavers and brought 
to Nassau. Now, my daughter, never forget 
this. Do not provoke the enmity of others by 
trying to outshine them, do not try to excel, but 
seek ever to remain in obscurity, and patiently 
walk the humble paths of earth. 

“Your Mother.” 

Mrs. Rogers’ keen eyes had grown very 
thoughtful as she read these papers. Suddenly 
lifting her head, she looked steadily at the brave 

i? 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


face before her. Her gaze glanced from Au- 
drey’s beautiful hair, brown without any tinge 
of red or gold, brushed severely back from face 
and neck and fastened at the back of the head in 
a braid — yet escaping wherever it could, in short, 
loose curls — to her pale, clear complexion, to 
her large dark eyes, soft as a gazelle’s with a 
human soul looking through them ; to her 
straight thin nose, with delicately cut nostrils; 
to her mouth, full, but beautifully shaped with 
the short, much curved upper lip that belongs 
peculiarly to the English; to the curves of her 
head, cheek and jaw, as unlike as possible to 
those of a negro. 

“It shows in my hair and mouth,” remarked 
Audrey, with the calmness of one who has ac- 
cepted her fate. 

Mrs. Rogers laughed outright. 

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed. “I advise you 
to show these letters to your father. If you do 
not, you will be treating him with the greatest 
unkindness. An anonymous letter, which is 
about the most contemptible thing on the earth, 
lays you under no obligation. I question the 
genuineness of these. If your father has a low- 
minded and unscrupulous enemy, I have no 
doubt that he wrote them.” 

*8 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


A curiously attentive expression came into 
Audrey's face. She sat a moment in deep 
thought. But in another she shook her head 
with a heart-broken sigh. 

“I can't help believing them," she said, “when 
I remember how papa always put me off when I 
asked about grandmother." Then, as she slid the 
papers pack to their hiding-place, she asked with 
quivering lip: 

“Noblesse obliger 

“Yes, dear," replied Mrs. Rogers seriously, 
“always noblesse oblige. For were you born of 
the lowliest parents on earth, you still are the 
daughter of a King. Whatever happens, you 
still have a soul to make grow into the likeness 
of God. You were put on the earth, as the seed 
is put into it, to grow toward Heaven. Nothing 
can free you from that obligation. And every- 
thing that happens to you of joy or sorrow is 
sent, as the sun and rain to the seed, to help you 
grow." 

“There is not a flying-fish to be seen," called 
Susy's gay voice, as Susy came down the deck 
that no longer was perfectly level. 

Mrs. Rogers started, and suddenly became 
aware that the wind was waking in the rigging, 
and the sun paling in the sky. The sea still was 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


glassy, but nowhere on its vast expanse was a 
sign of animal life. She rose hastily and went 
to the wheel-room, where the captain was look- 
ing out of the window. 

When she came back, the smokestacks already 
had begun to pour forth increased volumes of 
smoke, and the steamer had quickened her pace, 
perceptibly. 

“Thank God he has listened to me!” she ex- 
claimed to Audrey, who was again alone. 

That night, when Audrey and Susy went to 
the cabin which they shared, Mrs. Rogers ad- 
vised them not to undress. 

“You will find it very difficult to dress to- 
morrow, if you do,” she said. 

Susy tossed her head mutinously, as a sign 
that she meant to do as she pleased. Mrs. 
Rogers, seeing that there was nothing else to do, 
told her of the danger from which they were 
fleeing. At first Susy refused to believe her; 
but the swift throbbing of the engines shaking 
the vessel with every beat was evidence that the 
steamer was hurrying as fast as she was able. 
When Mrs. Rogers was gone, Susy fell into her 
berth in an abandonment of fear. Audrey, who 
was amazed, did her best to comfort her, but 


20 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


Susy still was moaning when Audrey, in spite of 
herself, fell asleep. 

Very early the next morning, they were awak- 
ened by the tossing of the steamer, the heavy 
tramp of hurrying feet outside their window or 
over the roof of their cabin, and the roaring of 
the wind. Their blind was closed, but the win- 
dow was open, and through this the wind came 
with such force that Audrey climbed down from 
her berth to close it. As she threw back the 
blind, they could see that the sea was black as 
ink and rushing past in great billows covered 
with foam that writhed from one crest to another 
with a hissing sound, audible above the wind. 
The masses of water pushed against the ship 
with such force, that every once in a while it 
seemed to stop and stagger from stem to stern, 
while its next wild movement onward seemed to 
be its last. 

“Audrey! Come into the berth with me!” 
exclaimed Susy in terror. “When I think of 
that wind, five hundred miles wide, maybe ! 
spinning round and round like a great top, and 
coming down after us, I am almost crazy !” 

Hardly had Audrey laid herself by Susy than 
Mrs. Rogers entered. Her face, now that they 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


actually were battling with danger, w r as calm, 
almost serene. 

“We are nearing the harbor,” she said, quietly. 
“The captain was hit by a falling spar last night 
and badly hurt. This steamer can get over the 
bar all right with a pilot.” 

“But none can put out to us in this sea!” 
cried Audrey. 

“No, of course not. I know these waters like 
my hand. I am going to be the pilot.” 

“You shan’t!” shrieked Susy. 

“It is that or put back to sea,” replied Mrs. 
Rogers. “You must be ready to hurry off the 
steamer the minute we reach the wharf.” 

As she staggered to the door Susy made a 
futile snatch at her gown. 

“You shan’t do it,” she cried. “You will run 
us on the reef. You will smash us into the light- 
house! And we shan’t put back to sea! Oh! 
somebody stop her!”’ 

She tried to struggle out of her berth, but 
thrown back by a violent plunge of the ship, lay 
clinging to Audrey and crying aloud. 

“Audrey!” she exclaimed passionately, “you 
always are praying when nothing is the matter; 
why don’t you pray now, when it might do some 
good? Tell God not to let me die! I won’t 
22 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


die ! I can’t ! I don’t dare ! I am too wicked !” 

She rolled over with her face hidden in the pil- 
low and beat the mattress in a frenzy. Audrey 
looked at her keenly. 

“Susy !” she began, slowly, “Mrs. Rogers said 
something yesterday which made me think of 
the way in which you acted on my seventeenth 
birthday.” 

“Don’t talk about that now,” mumbled Susy 
from the depths of the pillow. “This is our 
deathday !” 

“Susy Merwin, did you write those cruel let- 
ters to me?” 

“What letters? How can you talk that way 
now! Pray, pray, pray!” 

The steamer gave a long whistle. Audrey ex- 
citedly stumbled across the cabin and looked out 
the window, holding on to the washstand. 

“I see the lighthouse!” she exclaimed. “We 
are almost home ! Mrs. Rogers must be steering 
now !” 

“Then we are going to die right off,” cried 
Susy, trying to sit up. “Oh, Audrey! I did 
write them ! I was crazy with jealousy because 
you always were just ahead of me in everything 
and I never could quite catch up. If you were 
put down I could be first. And one day when 
23 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


you were rubbing your ancestors into me, you 
spoke of that mysterious grandmother, and set 
me thinking. So I wrote those letters. I 
thought they would take you down a bit, but I 
never thought they would half kill you as they 
did. I almost repented when at first you seemed 
to throw up that eternal noblesse oblige , and 
have horrid times like the rest of us, when you 
sulked and wouldn’t study, and lost marks and 
got bad-tempered. I almost loved you the day I 
was teasing you about your ancestors, and you 
shook me and put me out of the room. I felt 
that you had come down to my level. But sud- 
denly, when you began to grow so good and 
meek and kind to everybody and take the lowest 
place without a murmur, I hated you worse than 
ever. I knew I might have better clothes than 
you, be better looking, smarter, but I knew I 
could not be good. Oh! I can’t die!” 

“You will not have to — yet,” answered Audrey, 
throwing back the window. “We are over the 
bar! We are tearing down the harbor like a 
race-horse ! We are going to make it, and I am 
going to meet my darling father without the 
ghost of a black grandmother between us !” 

They did make it. When they reached the 
wharf the hurricane was very nearly upon them. 
24 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


The streets were deserted — every window of 
every house was protected by its tightly closed,- 
strongly barred shutters. No sooner was the 
gangplank thrown down, than Audrey’s father 
sprang up it and seized his daughter by the hand. 

“Quick !” he exclaimed. “To the nearest 
house ! I have hired rooms till this is over !” 

Audrey was holding on to Mrs. Rogers and 
did not relax her grasp. The three scurried 
down the deserted streets together and reached 
their shelter in time. 

When Audrey’s father remarked on the change 
that had taken place in his daughter, she told 
him the story of her year of suffering; her first 
wild rebellion against her lot and her gradual 
acceptance of it. 

“The true story of your grandmother is, that 
she disgraced her family and killed herself after 
it,” her father told her. 

Mrs. Rogers came across the room and kissed 
Audrey’s face, which told so plainly the tale of 
self-conquest. 

“Ah! what does she not owe to that grand- 
mother!” said Mrs. Rogers. 


25 


^ - 7 ‘ ' ' 






The Double-Barrelled Basket* 


27 



The Double-Barrelled Basket, 


Gladys Tracy could not understand why her 
mother would not let her have Lily Cottrell for 
an intimate friend. 

Lily’s mother was dead, and her father was 
away from home a great deal on business, so that 
Lily was left to the care of the old black woman 
who was her nurse when her mother died. Lily 
was often lonely and then asked Gladys to spend 
the day at her home. Gladys felt that never to 
be allowed to go was an almost unendurable 
hardship. She thought if her mother would 
only argue the matter with her, she could con- 
vince her that Lily was a most desirable com- 
panion. But her mother never would give her 
reasons for disapproving of Lily. 

Certainly, Gladys thought, Lily was the most 
beautiful girl in Nassau. She had bright brown 
curls just brushed with gold, brown eyes with 
a sparkle that matched the gold in her hair, and 
vivid pink cheeks with two deep dimples that 
were a laugh in themselves and hardly needed 
29 


A Race with a Hurricane- 


the accompaniment of curving red lips and 
sharp, white teeth like grains of rice, to make 
Lily’s laugh irresistible. She always was laugh- 
ing when Gladys saw her, and doing whatever 
came into her head to do. This was so much 
brighter than anything that ever came into any- 
body’s else head, that Gladys longed to take her 
for a leader and follow her all day. 

One afternoon in April, Gladys was leaning 
on the broad sill of the front window in her 
room, peering through the blinds at the Govern- 
ment House across the way. The Governor- 
General of the Bahamas, and his Secretary, clad 
in snow-white linen, were sitting on the piazza 
as if expecting company. The English flag was 
flying from the top of the staff before the house, 
a signal that his Excellency was at home. 
Gladys felt sure that, presently, there would be 
callers ; perhaps some of the officers of H. M. S. 
Partridge, which was waiting in the harbor to 
escort his Excellency around the islands. 
Gladys admired officers, and hoped they would 
come clanking up the hill, three abreast as they 
sometimes did, and climb the long flight of steps 
that led from the road to the house. 

Suddenly, the swift pat of a pony’s feet, the 
rattle of a village cart, and a shrill whistle, made 
30 


The Double-Barrelled Basket 


her fling open the blinds and lean over the win- 
dow-ledge. The whistle was in imitation of the 
call of the Sapodilla bird — “Dilly-dilly-sweet- 
sapodilly,” — and had been adopted by herself 
and Lily for a private call. They always whis- 
tled it when passing each other’s home. This 
time, however, Lily stopped under Gladys’ win- 
dow. 

“Come out and ride,” she cried, merrily. 

“Mamma is away,” faltered Gladys, sadly, 
“and I can’t go without asking.” 

“Of course not,” laughed Lily. “But you can 
go first, and ask afterwards, can’t you?” 

She wore a fresh white gown, and a big 
leghorn hat trimmed with pink roses and ribbons 
that matched her cheeks. Her curls were 
gleaming, her eyes shining, her dimples dancing. 
She looked like a fairy queen in an enchanted 
chariot, Gladys thought. 

“It is great fun to run away,” she added, 
mischievously. “Come out, and I’ll show you 
how.” 

Gladys thrilled with excitement. To run 
away suddenly seemed something not wrong, but 
very droll and spirited. 

“I’ll come,” she said quickly. 

Her gown was as white and fresh as Lily’s. 

31 


A Race with a Hu* ricane. 


She hurried on a leghorn hat, whose blue flowers 
and ribbons were as pretty with her yellow hair 
and blue eyes as the pink with Lily’s brown hair 
and eyes. 

On her way downstairs she met Louisa, a tall 
young black woman, Gladys’ favorite among the 
servants. Louisa always went about her work in 
a clean print gown, a shade hat and bare feet. 
She had an irresistible giggle that bubbled up 
every other minute. When she heard where 
Gladys was going, she could not get out of her 
way for giggling. Then, with sudden solemnity, 
she said: 

“Miss Gladys! Pause an’ t’ink! Yo’ Mah 
don’ ’low yo’ go ridin’ ’thout she say so. God 
will punish yo’ if yo’ dis’bey yo’ Mah.” 

Gladys pushed past her angrily, and left her 
doubled up in a paroxysm of giggles. 

When Gladys was seated in the cart, Lily said : 

“Let us go to Grant’s Town and make the 
little nigs ‘scrahmble.’ ” 

“Oh! no,” gasped Gladys. “Mamma never 
lets me go there alone.” 

“You don’t call going with me, going ‘alone/ 
do you?” asked Lily. “When we run away we 
always go to places we never go to at any other 
time.” 


32 


The Double-Barrelled Basket 


She was so charming and spirited, that Gladys 
forgot the sober thoughts which Louisa’s warn- 
ing had awakened. Her feeling of excitement 
returned. 

“Make the pony tear,” she said. 

Lily flicked her long-lashed whip, and away 
they ‘tore,’ to Grant’s Town. The beautiful 
suburb was a bower of fruit trees, palm trees, 
broad-leaved banana shrubs, flowers and picka- 
ninnies. Large flocks of the last, like flocks of 
merry blackbirds, collected first in one lane, then 
in another, and ran after the cart, crying in the 
sweetest of voices : 

“Give me a penny, Boss. Ahn’t got no 
fahder, ahn’t got no mudder ! Give us a 
scrahmble !” 

When the flock had grown large enough to 
make a scramble amusing, Lily or Gladys would 
fling a copper over the back of a cart, and the 
flock would fall, as one child, face down on the 
road in a screaming, struggling heap ; while Lily 
and Gladys would ‘tear’ on to another lane and 
flock. 

Gladys was thinking that never before had she 
had quite such a merry drive, when they met an 
old negro with a string of baskets on his arm. 
They were made of the silver palm, of the natural 

33 


A Race with a Hurricane, 


color, with borders of raised stars dyed crimson. 
Seeing the girls, he unslung the baskets and held 
them out for inspection. Involuntarily, Lily 
pulled up the pony and the man came to the cart. 

“Oh! what a lovely double-barrelled basket !” 
exclaimed Gladys, selecting it from the bunch 
and examining it delightedly. It was made in 
two small cylinders, a foot long, tied together, 
top and bottom, with a cord of twisted palm, held 
by one handle, but otherwise separate. Each had 
a cover and was in itself a complete basket. 

“One shillin , , ’m,” said the man. 

“I never did know anything so perfect for 
botanizing or shelling,” sighed Gladys, “and so 
cheap. I wish mamma would let me buy 
baskets of somebody besides John White!” 

“Why doesn’t she?” demanded Lily. 

“I don’t know, but she never will. It does 
seem as though I must have this.” 

“Buy it and don’t tell her where you got it,” 
advised Lily. “If you don’t say anything she 
will think you got it of John.” 

Gladys was naturally truthful and had been 
taught to look on the smallest deceit with horror. 
When her running away was over, she meant to 
tell her mother the smallest detail concerning 
it, She repelled Lily’s counsel indignantly. 

34 


The Double-Barrelled Basket* 


“I couldn’t do that,” she said. 

Lily pulled a shilling from her pocket, tossed 
it to the man and started the pony. 

“I'll give it to you,” she remarked, as if she 
had settled the matter. “You can give me your 
shell pin for a swap. You didn’t buy the 
basket and you haven’t got to tell your mother 
that you did.” 

Gladys tried to believe that her mother would 
allow her to keep it. She handed Lily her pin, 
then again scrutinized the basket, lovingly. She 
was sliding the covers on and off and thinking 
dreamily that she would carry it to Hog Island 
after the next north wind, when the beach would 
be covered with shells, when she saw John White 
slipping down the road on bare, black feet. 

John was a Congo negro who had been rescued 
in the southwest passage from a slaver and 
brought to Nassau. He had been trained in the 
family of an Englishman, and by careful imita- 
tion had acquired a well-bred manner, much ele- 
gant language and an English accent. He made 
all the baskets that the Tracy family used. 
Gladys was very fond of him. 

“Stop a minute,” she said to Lily, “I want 
to show John my basket.” 

When the pony came to a stand, she cried out ; 
35 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


“We bought this for only a shilling, of an 
old man with a red bandanna under his hat. 
Your baskets are very dear, John.” 

John looked at the basket demurely from un- 
der his hat’s broad brim, that extended across 
the front and hung in tatters at the back. 

“It is beautiful and cheap, ’m,” he replied, in 
a sweet, low voice. “I would not wish to in- 
jure anyone’s trade, ’m, but I feel it my duty to 
tell you that man sells baskets for one Tom 
Bowles, who makes them.” 

John paused a minute as though he wished to 
make his announcement more impressive, and 
added : 

“He is a leper, ’m.” 

With a blow from the butt of her whip Lily 
knocked the basket into the road. John care- 
fully stepped over it and walked on. Gladys, 
white with the horrible picture that her imagina- 
tion, at John’s words, had conjured up, sat for a 
minute speechless. Then, wringing her hands, 
she burst forth: 

“I was naughty to go at all, and naughtier to 
go to Grant’s Town, and naughtiest to keep that 
basket. But you just made me do every bit of 
it. And now I’ve got to be punished, just as 
Louisa said. But I didn’t think it would be any- 
36 


The Double-Barrelled Basket. 


thing as dreadful as this. But I hugged that 
basket and held it, and now I’ll be a leper. Oh ! 
Lily, will I really be one?” 

Lily was older than Gladys and knew that she 
could not have caught the disease. But she was 
furiously angry at what Gladys had said, and 
determined to “pay her up.” 

“You’ve got it now,” she said cruelly. “It 
only takes ten minutes to catch it. Please get 
out of the cart.” 

Never doubting her, Gladys stumbled to the 
road, and in another minute, Lily had left her 
alone. 

Her first thought was the basket. She could 
not leave it there to poison someone else. Slip- 
ping her handkerchief under the handle, she 
swung it from a noose and started on a run for 
home. As she ran, she thought what she must 
do to save others from herself. 

She burst into the house like a distracted child, 
ran directly to her room, and doubly locked the 
door. 

She heard the well-ropes creaking in the yard, 
and looking out of the window, saw Louisa 
drawing water. She called to her in such dis- 
tressed tones, that Louisa was too frightened to 


37 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


giggle. She dropped the bucket into the well 
and bolted up the stairs to Gladys’ room. 

“God has punished me !” cried Gladys, as 
Louisa pushed wildly at the door. “And I’ve 
got to live in this room and never go out, nor 
see anyone except out the window, and burn up 
all my clothes after I wear them, and break all 
the plates I eat off of.” 

“My! My! My!” wailed Louisa. “All dem 
painted plates Mis’ Tracy feel so bahd about, 
w’en wese smahsh ’em by mistake — ahn youse 
goin’ to smahsh ’em ah-puppose! W’at for?” 

“I’m a leper,” answered Gladys tragically, 
hoping that Louisa would fully appreciate this 
statement. 

She did. With a shriek, she sank in a heap to 
the floor, and with her head against the door- 
frame began to cry aloud. Gladys accompanied 
her to the other side of the door, and thus Mrs. 
Tracy found them. 

A half hour after Mrs. Tracy’s return, Gladys 
was sitting on her mother’s lap, by the front 
window. She had made a full confession. Her 
hands had been bathed in carbolic and water, her 
face had been cooled with cologne, and she had 
been comforted and forgiven. The basket was 
burning smokily in the yard, and the punger^ 
36 


The Double-Barrelled Basket- 


odor of it was coming through the open window. 
With a light heart Gladys was just satisfying 
herself that the Governor-General did have 
callers, when she heard a well-known pat and 
rumble in the road below. She leaned out of 
the window and hailed Lily. 

As the pony stopped and Lily caught sight of 
Mrs. Tracy, her pink cheeks became a beautiful 
crimson. 

“I’m sorry I said you made me naughty when 
I was naughty all of myself,” Gladys called out 
eagerly. “And I’m not a leper. Mamma says 
I couldn’t catch it that way.” 

Then, as Lily sat looking at her with an ex- 
pression of puzzled innocence, she added: 

“You know you said I had it.” 

“I never said anything of the sort,” replied 
Lily. “I sha’n’t play with you if you tell 
stories like that.” 

She raised the reins and the pony whisked her 
around the corner, out of sight. 

Gladys turned her shocked face to her mother. 

“Oh ! mamma !” she cried, “there isn’t any 
Lily like what I thought.” 

Although she always was fond of Lily, as she 
was fond of a lovely flower, she never again 
wanted her for a leader. She never again said : 
39 


A Race with a Hurricane, 


“Why, mamma?” when her mother declined 
Lily’s invitations for her. 

She adopted a private watch-word, which she 
never confided to anyone, but which often helped 
her when she was tempted to disobey her mother. 
It was, 

“Remember the double-barrelled basket!” 


40 





“ The Great Father John/' 




4 \ 
















































































































































































































































































































































44 The Great Father John*" 


The convent, a low, adobe building with a red- 
tiled roof, was built on three sides of a quad- 
rangle ; the church formed the fourth side. 
Brother Antonio’s cell, into which John had come 
to get a breviary, was on the front, near the 
bell-tower of the church. 

This afternoon the window was open and 
through it were wafted the odors of the sea and 
of myriads of flowers steeped in sunshine. . The 
most of John’s life went on in the inner cloisters 
about the quadrangle; he did not often come to 
the front of the convent. He thought that he 
would put his head out the window and peep at 
the Mexican children and their grandames, who, 
he felt sure, were basking in the sun on the 
church steps. The window was so high up that, 
in order to look out, he was obliged to hook him- 
self to the sill by his armpits, and press his knees 
against the wall. To remain in this position, 
with his head thrust forward, he was obliged to 
wriggle frequently. A sudden squirming, as he 
felt himself slipping, threw the breviary from his 
43 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


hand to the ground below. John was frightened. 
He leaned still farther forward to learn its fate, 
and beheld Brother Pedro, also leaning forward 
over the low railing of the brick-paved corridor 
beneath, looking upward. Seeing John, he 
scowled — for the boy was breaking one of the 
rules of the convent — and beckoned him to come 
down to pick up the book. 

In his beckoning hand Brother Pedro held the 
large key of the bell-tower, and from this John 
concluded that there were visitors in the tower. 
The bells were very old and famous, and many 
people climbed the stairs to see them. Brother 
Pedro, who had charge of the tower, seldom ac- 
companied the visitors because his rheumatism 
made climbing painful. 

When John reached the corridor, which ex- 
tended from the tower across the front of the 
convent, the visitors, a lady and a young girl, 
were talking to Brother Pedro. John was very 
shy. During the four years that he had lived 
at the convent, he never had spoken to a woman 
or a girl, and he suddenly felt that he never could. 
Accordingly, he scuttled down the steps to the 
ground, and ducked behind the railing, deter- 
mined to stay there until they had gone. He 
buttoned his jacket over the breviary, and set 
44 


** The Great Father Johru* 

himself to catch one of the little green lizards 
that whisked over the hard earth at his feet or 
stopped to palpitate in the sun. 

Above him, in the balmy California air, the 
voices floated like those in a dream. The 
woman’s voice reminded him of Father Francis’ 
organ, with the tremulo stop pulled out, and the 
girl’s of the meadow-lark’s, brimming over 
with something she could not keep back. He 
heard them say that they were staying at the hotel 
for a few days, and, turning his head to look 
at it, shining in the sun in the valley below, he 
heard nothing more for a few minutes. Then, he 
discovered that they were talking about him. 

“He is a big boy for eight years,” the lady said, 
in a tender voice that played on John’s heart like 
a hand on a harp ! “You say that he was only 
three when he was brought here, and is going to 
be a priest? And his name is John? I should 
like to speak to him.” 

This was too much for John. He looked about 
him for means of escape. The visitors blocked 
the doorway. At the end of the corridor began 
the orange orchards of the convent, that stretched 
away from the roadside down the hill. They 
were enclosed by a high picket fence of which the 
gate, near the corridor, usually was shut and fas- 
45 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


tened by a long, wooden pole. To-day, the gate 
was ajar. Toward this John darted like a lizard, 
dashed into the orchard, down the south side of 
the convent, through it, into the quadrangle 
where no woman was allowed to come. 

Here he sat down by the plashing fountain to 
think. When John thought, his concentration 
was so remarkable that everyone in the commu- 
nity prophesied great things of his future. 
Brother Antonio, who, although nearly eighty, 
had the heart of a boy, always spoke to him in 
private as “the great Father John. ,, 

Now, his pet cats strolled around the sculp- 
tured edge of the fountain and winked enticingly 
at the little birds in the fig trees, who were agi- 
tatedly waiting a chance to bathe and drink, but 
he saw them not. All the roses of the garden of 
which he was so fond and tended with such 
care — Cloth of Gold, Gold of Ophir, Niphetos, 
Jacqueminot, Mermet — were tossing their per- 
fume to the sun, but he smelled it not. His 
mind was puzzling over the feeling which he had 
experienced before, but never with such vividness 
as at this minute, that he had lost something, he 
did not know what, which he must look for, he 
did not know where. 

His life before he came here was a dream, of 

46 


“The Great Father John.” 


which he remembered no more than the fact that 
it had been. He could not imagine any other 
way of living than the present way; with the 
frequent services in the church, the long hard 
lessons with Father Ybarra, work in the garden, 
or orchard or vineyard, with Brother Alessandro, 
which was as good as play ; a little playtime with 
the cats and his menagerie of trap-door spiders 
and lizards; and the delightful, ever more de- 
lightful, story hours with Brother Antonio. 

Brother Antonio remembered when the Indians 
attacked the Mission, or crowded into it for de- 
fense against hostile tribes. He knew their 
charms, their legends, their traditions, and could 
tell wonderful tales about them. John liked to 
hear these in the bright noon-hours, when the 
wind blew fresh from the sea ; when all the haze 
had drifted away from the mountains and they 
looked like bare, brown fortresses close to the 
convent. But when the sun was near its setting, 
when the mountains were far-away mysteries be- 
hind a purple veil, when the meadow-lark's song 
seemed to come from a great distance among 
the clouds, John liked to hear about the lives of 
the saints. And after this, just before it was 
time for supper in the long, bare refectory, he 
liked to slip into the darkening church and study 
47 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


the pictures of the saints on the reredos behind 
the high altar. Then, when the church was so 
still that he could hear the fluttering sigh of some 
Mexican woman, kneeling before a side altar, or 
the wind rustling the long grass over the graves 
of the Spaniards, in the old, old graveyard out- 
side, that curious sense of loss was very strong 
within him. 

This never was so strong, however, as at night, 
just as he was falling asleep in his little cell next 
the kind Father Francis’ cell. Then, sometimes, 
it was so bitter that he felt he could not bear it. 
But often when he felt that he must cry aloud, he 
was comforted by a dream so vivid, that Brother 
Antonio, to whom he confided it, said it must be 
a vision. This dream never varied. First, he 
felt a light touch on his hair, as if a hand were 
laid there, lovingly. Then, he saw outlines of a 
face bending over him, whose only distinct 
features were the eyes. These were very beauti- 
ful, shining, and deep blue, as though one could 
look through two stars to the sky beyond. They 
made his heart beat fast with happiness; they 
drew his arms upward till they seemed to be 
clasped about a neck. Then, he felt a cheek, 
softer and sweeter than all the rose leaves in the 
garden, laid on his; he heard a voice, so tender 
48 


“The Great Father John.” 


that it made him sigh, whisper in his ear : “God 
keep my darling.” Then the vision was gone, 
and he fell asleep greatly comforted. 

Before this day, it never had come to him ex- 
cept at night. But now, as he sat thinking by 
the fountain, the eyes suddenly shone out of the 
bright air, the voice called with entrancing sweet- 
ness, “John!” 

He sprang up trembling. He felt an impulse 
to go he knew not where. He ran to the high 
adobe wall that adjoined the church and shut off 
the quadrangle from the graveyard, and in- 
spected it. A water-spout extended up the 
church, very near it. He could climb up- that, 
drop over the wall, run across the graveyard, 
mount from the old Spaniard’s tomb to the outer 
wall, drop into the road (it would be a long drop 
for a small boy) and — and then — what? He did 
not know. 

While he stood thinking, Brother Alessandro 
came down the garden-path with a barrow full 
of soil. Some of the visitors to the church had 
discovered the grave of an ancestor, and had re- 
quested to have it planted with flowers. Brother 
Alessandro was doing the work. He was a pecu- 
liar man, of Spanish descent, not exactly foolish, 
yet wanting some of his wits. He had tucked up 
49 


A Race with a Hurricane, 


his brown, cowled habit so that his sandaled feet 
were distinctly visible, and to the knotted rope 
about his waist, beside the long, swinging rosary, 
he had hung a slender chain, to which was 
attached the key of the door in the wall. Not 
wishing to put down the heavy wheelbarrow, he 
called John to unlock the door for him. 

Hardly had John swung it back and stepped 
into the churchyard to hold it open while 
Brother Alessandro passed, than he saw the 
young girl whom he had seen in the corridor, 
coming toward them. She was dressed in a 
white gown and a big, yellow hat crowned with 
pink roses, and was lovelier than any pictured 
angel John ever had seen. A laugh flickered 
over her face like the sunlight. 

“I am going into the quadrangle,” she an- 
nounced to Brother Alessandro in a matter-of- 
course tone, but with eyes and lips brimming 
with mischief. 

Brother Alessandro dropped the barrow across 
the path. 

“No! No!” he ejaculated, in horror. “The 
faders not like dat!” 

“Why ! I already have seen it from the 
tower!” she replied in pretended surprise, mak- 
ing a movement as though she would walk 
around the barrow. 


50 


44 The Great Father John.” 


“No woman can go in dere!” said Brother 
Alessandro, distressed at her persistence. 

“But I am only a little girl!” she answered, 
with a look at John, so merry that he forgot his 
shyness, and smiled broadly at her in response. 

“Polly! What are you doing?” called the 
lady of the tower, suddenly coming out of the 
side door of the church and walking toward 
them. This time, John did not run away, but 
stood, his back against the door, staring with all 
his might. The lady’s eyes, like blue stars, were 
looking him through and through. She came 
directly to him, not seeming to hear Brother 
Alessandro’s protestations, uttered in Spanish. 

“Why ! This is John !” she said, in a tone that 
was like a caress. Involuntarily, he sprang upon 
the barrow to bring his eyes nearer hers. 

“I had a little boy named John,” she continued, 
putting her hand gently on his bright curls, “and 
he had hair like yours. He would have been 
eight if he had lived. But he died, while I was 
away from him. Are you too big to be kissed, 
John?” 

Her eyes were blurred with tears. 

Not knowing what he did, John stretched his 
arms toward her bending neck. Before they had 
reached it, he felt himself dragged backward 

5\ 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


and hurled through the doorway. When he 
picked himself off the ground, the door was shut, 
and Brother Alessandro was locking it. In an- 
other minute, he marched John down the cloister 
to the refectory, which also was a sort of judg- 
ment hall. Here they were met by Brother 
Pedro, who had come to prefer his complaint 
against John. Father Francis sat at the head of 
the hall, gentle, kind, just. As soon as John met 
his questioning look, he broke away from Brother 
Alessandro’s grasp, and burst forth in a cry that 
amazed them all. 

“I want my mother !” he said. “I must go to 
her! Where is she? It is not a vision that 
comes to me, it is my mother. I remember now. 
I do not want to be the great Father John. I 
want to go and live with my mother !” 

In vain Father Francis told him that his 
mother had left him when he was a little baby, 
and now was dead. John reiterated, again and 
again, that she was not dead, and that he must go 
to her. At last his emotion became so vehement 
that he was sent to his cell, to stay until he could 
control himself. He threw himself on his little 
iron bed and wept until he was exhausted and 
fell asleep. 

In the middle of the night he awoke suddenly 

52 


u The Great Father John*" 


and sat up on his bed. He still was fully 
dressed. By the ray of moonlight that streamed 
through his window he saw that someone had 
put food by his bed. The wind whispered out- 
side and a night bird called. Then, all at once, 
he heard that voice in his ear, calling softly, 
“John!” 

The impulse to run away returned and over- 
powered him. He stood a minute thinking, 
then laid his hand in affectionate farewell on the 
wall that divided his cell from that of Father 
Francis, and stole to the window. The quad- 
rangle was bright as day in the moonlight; the 
cloisters were dark in the shadow. Noiselessly 
he slipped out of the window to the bench just 
below it. Noiselessly he crept down the cloister, 
climbed the churchyard wall, sped across the 
churchyard, climbed the outer wall, and 
dropped, naif-dazed, to the road. He faltered a 
moment beneath Brother Antonio’s window, then 
started down the hill on a run. He was going to 
the lady of the tower. He had no plan of what 
he would say or do when he saw her — he simply 
was obeying an impulse to go to her. 

He had thought that the hotel would be closed 
and that he would curl up on the piazza for the 
night, and as soon as the doors were opened in 

53 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


the morning, would go in and ask for the lady 
who had had a little son named John, who died, 
and still had a daughter named Polly. But as 
he ran, he saw the lights of the hotel twinkling 
palely in the moonlight; and when he reached 
it, lo! the doors and windows were open, music 
was vibrating through them, and men and women 
were whirling up and down a long room. A 
group of carriage drivers were looking through 
an open window, and he joined them. One of 
them began to ask him awkward questions, but 
he did not heed, for, in a little room near the 
door, sitting all alone, he saw the lady of the 
tower. She was dressed in shining white, her 
neck was bare, and around her throat was some- 
thing which John thought was a beautiful white 
rosary. He ran straight to her. 

“I want my mother !” he cried. 

She became whiter than her rosary, but said 
nothing, until she had led him upstairs to her 
private parlor. There, she put a hand on each 
side of his face, turned it up to the light and 
studied it long with the shining eyes he thought 
so beautiful. Then she drew him to a mirror 
and held him beside her, while she looked from 
his bright hair to hers as bright, from his eyes, 
nose, lips, to hers. At each look her cheeks 
54 


“ The Great Father John. 


tt 

♦ 


grew whiter, her eyes more shining, and at length 
she murmured : “The dead cannot come back !” 
Finally, she drew him to a sofa, and sitting near 
him, still watching his face, said in her tender 
voice : 

“Tell me what sent you here, to me, at this 
hour? Tell me all that you can remember about 
your mother.” 

As John poured out his words, a fog seemed 
to lift from his memory. He kept seeing little 
pictures in his mind, of what had happened to him 
before he came to the convent to live. He sud- 
denly remembered that he had been taken there 
by a cross man, whom he had called Uncle Ru- 
dolf, but who said he was not John’s uncle and 
his name was not Rudolf, and who also said that, 
if John ever called him Uncle Rudolf again, even 
in private, he would beat him soundly; and if 
before the fathers, he would cut off his head. 

In the midst of John’s tale, came a knock at 
the door, and when it was opened, there stood 
Father Francis. 

“I have come to take John back,” he an- 
nounced, calmly. “I heard him slipping out and 
followed him. A cabman who had seen him run 
in to you, directed me here.” 


55 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


The lady of the tower swayed like a rose in 
the wind. She held John close to her side. 

“What is John’s whole name?” she asked. 

“He has no name but John,” replied Father 
Francis, gravely. 

“Sit down, and let me tell you about my little 
John,” she besought Father Francis. “When he 
was only three years old, his father, who was in 
Europe, was taken violently ill, and sent for me 
to come to him. I left John’s sister with my 
mother, who was an invalid and could not take 
charge of both children. I left him with his 
father’s brother, Rudolf Williams, who took John 
away from his sister in New York, to live on a 
ranch in Texas. My husband died. Before I 
had recovered from the shock of his death, Ru- 
dolf wrote me that John had died of malignant 
diphtheria, and sent me the certificate of his death. 
When I returned to America, I went to Texas to 
see my little boy’s grave. If he had lived, he 
would have looked, acted, spoken, like this John. 
When my husband and son died, all their money, 
which was a great deal, went to Rudolf, the next 
heir.” 

Father Francis and the lady of the tower 
looked at each other with increasing gravity. At 
last Father Francis replied: 

56 


“ The Great Father John*" 


“A man, who said his name was Horace Jones, 
brought John to the Mission. He told us that 
John was an orphan and must go to the alms- 
house if we did not take him in. Brother Ales- 
sandro recognized the man as one who owned the 
ranch on which Brother Alessandro’s father was 
a cow-puncher, when Brother Alessandro was a 
little boy. At that time, the man’s name was not 
Horace Jones. I will take John with me now, 
and to-morrow, if you will come to the Mission, 
I think I may have something more to tell you.” 

The next morning, Brother Antonio told 
John a story of which John himself was the hero. 
He did not understand of it much more than that 
the cross man was his Uncle Rudolf, after all, 
and that the lady of the tower was his mother. 
He heard the end of the story with her hand on 
his hair, as he had dreamed. 

“It seemed a chance that brought me to Cali- 
fornia,” she said; “a chance that brought me to 
the convent, a chance that brought you down to 
where you heard my voice, which awoke your 
memory ; but it all was God’s wonderful, abiding 
care for us.” 

So John went away to live with his mother, 
and though he made many visits to the Mission, 
he never became “the great Father John.” 

57 












The Romantic Adventures of a Fox- 
Terrier. 


59 





















The Romantic Adventures of a Fox- 
Terrier. 


His name was Jack. His coat was snow white. 
He had a stub tail, round as a broom handle; a 
black cap ; a black mask ; a splash of lemon color 
on each cheek, and a dot of lemon color over 
each eye. These dots intensified the faithful, 
loving expression of his brown eyes. 

One morning in June, the unhappiest dog in 
London, he was sitting on the window-sill of the 
ground-floor drawing-room, looking sadly into 
the garden. He had lost his little master, Gerald 
Baird. The day before, Gerald had gone in a 
hansom cab as far as Hyde Park Corner, mean- 
ing to walk from there — since cabs were not 
allowed in Hyde Park — to the Serpentine. Here 
he was to meet some friends and their tutor, and 
spend the morning sailing his toy boats upon the 
lake. The cabman, who was well known to 
Gerald’s father, said that he left the boy starting 
in the direction of the lake. Somewhere between 
it and the Corner, Gerald had disappeared. And, 

61 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


though the best detectives of Scotland Yard were 
looking for him, no trace of him could be found. 
Jack had heard his master’s parents and friends 
talking about it all, and had done his best to com- 
fort them. But they were too occupied to heed 
him, and now, he was sitting all alone, trying to 
comfort himself. 

Suddenly, as he sat with his nose against the 
pane, uttering lonesome whines, his arch-enemy, 
the black cat, sprang upon the garden-seat on 
the terrace just under his window, and began to 
make her morning toilet. 

She was a vagabond who lived in the gutter, 
but had the assurance of the queen of cats. The 
very first time that she had seen Jack, she had 
declared war to the last scratch. She did this, 
because, seeing him dragged past on a leader 
(the only way that he was allowed to take ex- 
ercise in London) she believed he was a dog to 
be spit at with impunity. He ! who, in the coun- 
try, where he always was free, was the terror of 
the doughtiest cat, and fleeter than the swiftest- 
footed of them all. Oh! how he longed to 
show her his true character ! 

On this particular morning, knowing well that 
he could not get out, she was more than ever 
impudent. Evidently she heard his frantic 
62 


The Romantic Adventures of a Fox-Terrier. 


barks; but not heeding them, she polished her 
eyes and whiskers and arranged the fur just be- 
hind her ears with a deliberation that was an 
unbearable insult. When she was quite satisfied 
with her appearance, she arose, yawned, and 
turning her glittering green eyes up to Jack, 
sharpened her claws on the seat. Her whole 
manner was a jeer which said, “Come on! You 
can’t! You don’t dare!” 

Then, contemptuously dropping to the ground, 
she strolled across the garden to the Green Park, 
just beyond; as if to remind him that though 
she might be homeless, at least she never was led 
out by a chain. 

Jack’s heart nearly burst with shame and rage. 

As she reached the public path, she apparently 
was unaware that not many feet away from her, 
were three dachshunds, out for an airing with 
their mistress. Jack despised dachshunds, with 
their crooked legs and flooping feet; but at least 
they were dogs. In another minute the black cat 
would learn respect for Jack’s species. 

Jack so quivered with excitement at the thought 
of this approaching triumph, that his teeth chat- 
tered and his rapid breathing befogged the pane. 
When this was clear, he hardly could believe his 
eyes. The black cat, drawn up into a bristling 
63 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


arch, was spitting the most ferocious challenges, 
at the same time making passes at them with one 
paw, claws bared. The dachshunds — with that 
incarnation of everything that ought to be chased 
and worried and treed, within one spring — were 
placidly waddling on! 

Jack could not bear this. With a shriek of 
disgust, he tore out of the room, determined to 
find somewhere in that vast house, some cranny 
or hole, if only a rat-hole, through which he could 
squeeze his way out of doors. Then, he would 
tear around to the Park, overtake the dachs- 
hunds, teach them the art of self-defence, and 
show the black cat that he was not to be jeered 
at. 

By great good luck, when he reached the hall 
he found the outside door open. Matthews, the 
butler, was on the steps remonstrating with a 
street musician who was playing “Away with 
Melancholy,” and would not move on (Jack knew 
the tune well. He and his master sometimes 
played it with one finger on the piano). 

Jack crept past Matthews’ back to the pave- 
ment, then skimmed away like a swallow, down 
St. James Place. He knew if he tried to go 
through the garden to the Park he would be 
brought back. He meant to run to St. James 
64 


The Romantic Adventures of a Fox-Terrier. 


Street down to St. James Palace, through the 
courtyard to the Park. 

When he nearly had reached the Palace, the 
sight of the two soldiers on guard made him stop 
to think. Though he admired their scarlet coats 
and despised their fur hats, which looked like a pile 
of black cats, he was afraid of their bayonets. 
He rather thought that these were to stick into 
runaway dogs. 

Suddenly, a delightful idea flashed through his 
brain. Now that he was out and free, why 
should he not look for his master? With Jack, 
to think was to act. In another minute he was 
dashing up St. James Street to Piccadilly. From 
there he meant to run to Hyde Park and see if 
he could not find his master’s trail. Of course it 
would be overlaid with others ; but Jack trusted in 
the keenness of his scent. He would back this 
against a bloodhound’s. 

As he hurled himself around the corner into 
Piccadilly, he ran into an emaciated bull-terrier 
and knocked him into an old man in a scarlet 
coat, who was sweeping the muddy crossing. 
The old man angrily raised his coarse broom and 
brought it down hard, on the bull-terrier’s back. 
The bull-terrier gave a yelp of pain, and with his 
tail between his legs, raced up the street. Jack 
65 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


was so indignant at the crossing-sweeper’s in- 
justice, that he nipped the man’s bare heel, 
through a hole in the boot, and hurried after the 
bull-terrier to apologize. 

Fortunately, he was going Jack’s way. He 
was following a small, two-wheeled cart that 
was loaded with vegetables, and drawn by a 
donkey hardly larger than a mastiff. On top of 
the load sat a big man, evidently the bull-terrier’s 
master. He wore a discolored corduroy suit, 
and a misshapen hat that looked like a decayed 
vegetable. He was whipping the donkey inces- 
santly, and had such a cruel face that Jack was 
almost afraid to speak to his dog. 

On close examination Jack thought that the 
bull-terrier looked as if his life were a miser- 
able one. His dingy white coat was covered 
with scars — some old, some new, one or two, 
bleeding. His ears were torn and chewed, one 
eye swollen and inflamed. The other eye, blue 
with a white ring, looked at Jack with an ex- 
pression of discouragement intense enough for a 
dozen eyes. 

“How are you?” said Jack pleasantly. “I 
am sorry the crossing-sweeper hit you. Did he 
hurt, much?” 

The bull-terrier turned fiercely, as though he 

66 


The Romantic Adventures of a Fox-Terrier* 

thought Jack were making game of him. But 
when his eyes met Jack’s, he sighed. 

“Come under ’ere,” he answered, creeping be- 
neath the cart, where his master could not see him. 
“We’ll chat a bit. They gives you a plenty to 
eat. Where does you live?” 

Trotting by his side, Jack told him all about 
his home in St. James Place and his home in the 
country. 

“ ’Allowed Park ! where you lives in the coun- 
try!” exclaimed the bull-terrier. “My missus 
an’ me corned from near there. We lived at 
Swan Inn, we did. We ran haway to marry 
’im.” The bull-terrier looked upward, contemp- 
tuously. “We lives at Seven Dials, now” 

“Is that a nice place?” asked Jack innocently. 

“Oh! hain’t it!” replied the bull-terrier, sulk- 
ily. “Three families hin one room, nothin’ to 
eat, and the buckle-hend of the strap, night and 
day.” 

“Does the buckle-end make those queer marks 
on your coat?” asked Jack. 

The bull-terrier grunted. “When ’e takes it 
to Missus,” he said, mournfully, “I ’as to take 
the legofhour chair in my teeth, helse I’d bite ’im. 
Then ’e’d kill me, hand Missus wouldn’t ’ave no 
one. Missus his sick. She’s thin has me. She 
67 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


was plump has you when we corned from the 
country. Who’s your master or missus?” 

Jack told him all about his great grief. 

“Your master lost, hand you hain’t a-found 
’im !” exclaimed the bull-terrier. “Hain’t you 
got a nose?” 

Jack told him what he was about to do. 

“There’s a beastly lot o’ kid-stealing down 
hour way,” said the bull-terrier, with the air of 
knowing what a wicked place the world is. “H’if 
you track ’im there, ’unt me hup, hand I’ll ’elp 
you.” 

“Thank you,” answered Jack. “Where shall 
I find you?” 

The bull-terrier gave him the most careful 
directions to Seven Dials. 

“There is the Piccadilly goat !” exclaimed 
Jack, looking between the spokes of the wheels 
at that famous beast. “Perhaps he can help me. 
Good-bye.” 

In another minute, he was running across the 
street to the sidewalk where the goat was stand- 
ing. The two streams of foot passengers, mov- 
ing down and up, divided at this majestic crea- 
ture, who, perfectly immovable, was gazing at 
some workmen in the gutter. The men had 
stopped in their work of mending the pavement 
63 


The Romantic Adventures of a Fox-Terrier. 


with small blocks of wood and boiling tar, and 
were grouped around a brazier. One of them 
was frying some thick slices of bacon on a 
shovel held over the fire. Jack knew a little goat 
language, which he had learned down in the 
country. He addressed the Piccadilly goat in 
this, but the goat did not even look at him. The 
goat’s horns were so sharp and his beard so 
long that Jack felt afraid of him ; but the desire 
to find his little master emboldened him to tweak 
the patriarch’s beard, respectfully, to attract his 
attention. Without a moment’s reflection the 
goat lowered his head and calmly butted Jack 
aside. But even while tumbling across the side- 
walk under the heels of numerous persons, Jack 
did not forget his errand; and seeing that the 
goat was looking at him, yelped out his apologies 
and enquiries. This time the goat heard him. 
He allowed Jack to approach a second time ; and, 
while acknowledging with a proud stare, the 
workmen’s shouts of, “Good on you, Billy! Hat 
’im hagain !” said : “I know many things. I 
know many languages. All day I walk about 
and listen, so I hear many things from the 
humans and the beasts. I know your master 
and like him. He always stops to scratch my 
ear when he goes by, and once he bought a cab- 
69 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


bage from a ‘coster’ and gave it to me. To-day, 
I heard two flower-girls from Covent Garden 
Market talking about someone who had been 
added to Bill Dirk’s gang of ‘kids.’ I once was 
a kid. I wanted to see that gang. I listened 
to hear where it might be found. They said that 
Bill Dirk and Lambeth George met this ‘kid’ in 
the Park. They went up to him and frightened 
him, so that he did not dare cry out. Then they 
took him away in a cart. They stole him. They 
took off his clothes and dressed him in rags. A 
kid in clothes! thought I, like a poor human. 
Then I discovered that they meant a young 
human, when they said ‘kid.’ They said that all 
Bill Dirk’s gang was made up of young humans 
who had been stolen.” 

The goat turned his stare to Jack’s troubled 
eyes. 

“That last ‘kid’ was your master. By the sign 
of Capricorn, I know it.” 

“Where shall I go? What shall I do? How 
can I rescue him?” asked Jack, frantically. 

“Go on as you were going. I can tell you no 
more. Good-bye,” replied the goat, walking to 
the gutter, where one of the men was offering 
him a bit of bacon. In another second, Jack was 
on his way, and, in very short time, reached the 

70 


The Romantic Adventures of a F ox-Te rrier. 

Park. He began to hunt for his master’s trail 
at the entrance. While he was running to and fro, 
the three dachshunds, who had caused his break 
for liberty, waddled past him. 

In the long hours of reflection that came to him 
afterward, he looked on the dachshunds as in- 
struments in the hands of his destiny. But at 
that minute he looked on them as dogs who 
needed a lesson. In one wild charge he was 
upon them. Over they all went, in a struggling, 
shrieking heap. 

“You must learn the art of self-defence,” he 
cried, as he jumped from one to the other. 
“Great Sirius! Haven’t you got one shake-of-a- 
dog-tail’s worth of pluck?” 

The affray was over in less time than Jack 
wished. The dogs’ mistress had joined in and 
was beating Jack with her parasol (which he 
thought was the greatest fun of all), when a 
policeman started to her aid. At the first gleam 
of his approaching buttons Jack was up and 
away. He ran until he came to a lonely spot 
with only one man in sight, and sat down to 
laugh. Oh! those dachshunds! 

He did not laugh long. For in the midst of 
his mirth he recollected his errand, and sprang 
up to run back to the entrance. He had just time 
71 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


to observe that the one man in sight was a vil- 
lainous-looking one, and had come very near him, 
when he felt a rough hand grip his throat, so 
that he could not cry out. The same hand thrust 
a bag over his head and held him against its 
owner’s side. 

“I’m stolen, too!” thought Jack, despairingly. 
“My master always said if I went out without 
a leader, I would be.” 

He tried to bark, but a cruel blow frightened 
him into silence. Presently he discovered that 
there was a peep-hole in the bag, through which 
he could see perfectly. 

In a few minutes they came from the Park to 
a crowded street. A ramshackle cart, drawn by 
an old horse, was crawling along the gutter. By 
the horse’s side was a man enough like the one 
who had stolen Jack to be his brother. Jack’s 
man hailed him. In another minute all three 
were rattling along as fast as the old horse could 
draw them. By and by they turned into a street 
lined with bird cages. Every window and door- 
way of every house was filled with them. Jack’s 
heavy heart gave a little bound. This was the 
street that the bull-terrier had described as the 
one next his home. Then they turned into a 
street that was filled with stands of old vegetables 
72 


The Romantic Adventures of a Fox-Terrier* 

and withered fruit, around which were grouped 
poor men, women and children, either buying of 
the owners or looking hungrily for some stray 
leaf that might be had for nothing. It was the 
street in which the bull-terrier lived. Jack’s 
heart beat with hope. 

Presently the man who carried Jack, got out, 
and went down a flight of broken steps into a 
room that smelt like a damp cellar. He threw 
Jack down on the hard floor and walked away. 
Though it was very dark in the cellar, Jack still 
could use his peep-hole and this is what he saw. 

In the corner where he was, a cooking-stove, 
red with rust, a sink, a few cooking utensils, a 
chair, in which the man sat himself, and two 
mattresses, covered with ragged bedclothes, on 
the floor. All the rest of the large room was 
crowded with sacks, baskets, old pails and even 
tin pans, all filled with half-burned coal. In the 
farthest corner, beside a large heap of cinders, a 
small boy, dressed in dirty rags, was shaking a 
sifter over a barrel. His back was turned, but 
Jack could se that he was choking down great 
sobs, that shook his shoulders. Once in a while, 
he raised his hand to his eyes. When he took 
it away, there were white streaks on the black of 


73 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


his hand, and black streaks on the white of his 
cheek. 

Several boys, some smaller than the boy who 
was sifting, some a little larger, tremblingly ap- 
proached the man in the chair. Each carried a 
bag of coarse sacking, partly filled with cinders. 
Some sacks were almost full. The boys who 
carried these were dismissed with a grunt. 
Some sacks were almost empty. The terror- 
stricken boys who carried these, were beaten 
with a whip consisting of several strips of 
leather tied to a wooden handle. Though they 
writhed with anguish, their cries were hardly 
more than moans. 

“Oh! what a dreadful place!” thought Jack. 
“My turn next, I suppose. I wonder if I shall 
get the ‘buckle-end/ ” 

After the man had examined their sacks, the 
boys filed to the big heap, deposited their load, 
and sack in hand, crept past the man to the steps. 
As each one went by him the man flicked his 
whip toward them, and said: 

“You brings more to-night, or you gets a 
wollopin\” 

When all were gone but the boy in the corner, 
the man called out : “Come here, you !” 

The boy turned, and tried to come bravely. 

74 


The Romantic Adventures of a Fox-Terrier. 


Then, through all the dust and rags, Jack recog- 
nized his little master. At the horror of this. 
Jack yelped with anguish and clawed so vigor- 
ously at the bag, that the man, reminded of his 
existence, freed him. 

“Yer worth a fi’ pun-note to me,” he said to 
Jack, as he took off the dog’s collar and smoothed 
his ruffled coat with an old fur cap. Then, 
lightly kicking Jack away, he said to the boy: 

“Hi’m goin’ hout. H’if you stirs from them 
hashes, h’ill know it, hand hi’ll burn your heyes 
hout with a ’ot poker. You can sift better, blind. 
Don’t think as ’ow you can cut. Hi’m honly 
haround the corner. Take keer on the dorg.” 
With a backward scowl, he stamped up the steps. 

In another instant, Jack, till now thoroughly 
cowed, was leaping on his master. 

“Jack!” cried Gerald. “You darling dog! It 
really is you! S-s-sh! You must not make a 
sound ! He will not allow us to cry. Oh, Jack ! 
If we have got to live with him, we shall die !” 

Clasping Jack in his arms, Gerald sank on the 
floor and sobbed as though his heart were broken. 

Presently, above the other sounds in the 
street above, they heard steps approaching their 
cellar. Gerald thrust Jack from him, ran to the 
sifter and began to shake it violently. Jack fol- 
75 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


lowed, and tried to help by scrambling to the top 
of the heap and snapping at the sifter. Two 
coarsely-booted feet appeared below the opening 
to the cellar, and a man’s voice called out : 

“Dirk there?” 

When Gerald called back that he was just 
around the corner, the voice laughed, and the 
feet disappeared. No sooner had they gone, 
than a dog, once white, dashed down the steps 
on a tour of investigation. Jack barked for joy. 
It was his friend, the bull-terrier. 

“I’m stolen, too !” he barked, rolling down the 
cinder-heap. “This is my master. He’s stolen.” 

“That was ’er ’usband wot just spoke,” replied 
the bull-terrier, grimly. “Well! Wot are you 
goin’ to do of ?” 

“I don’t know !” cried Jack. “Tell me what.” 

The bull-terrier came to Gerald, sniffed him 
carefully and decided in his favor. 

“Hif you gets hoff off hat hall, you gets hoff 
now,” he said to Jack. “E’s gone hoff hon a cart 
of coals. I seed ’im.” 

Jack immediately leaped on his master, and 
ran toward the door, as his habit was when he 
wanted to go to walk. 

“’Old hon!” said the bull-terrier. “Coast 
hain’t clear ! There’s honly one way to do hit !” 
76 


The Romantic Adventures of a Fox-Terrier. 


He sighed, and dejectedly rubbed his swollen 
eye on his paw. 

“There’s a bull-dog down the street I hain't 
never ’ad grit to fight, nor ’e me. Now, hit’s 
got to be did. ’Cos, the minute we begins, 
hevery pusson hon this street will ring hus, to see 
fair play. Hit means a horful lickin’ for both 
hof hus, but hit’s got to be did. W’en you ’ears 
the row, cut!” 

Jack’s loving heart was torn, between his 
master and his friend in need. 

“Wait,” he cried. “There must be some other 
way !” 

“There hain’t. There’s Missus ’usband a- 
whistlin’. In a minute you’ll ’ear the row.” 

“If we get away, come and live with us,” 
pleaded Jack. 

“Can’t leave Missus, nohow,” answered the 
bull-terrier as he ran up the steps. 

Presently, Jack heard the distant sounds of 
fighting, dogs; then, the tramp of many feet 
hurrying in that direction, then only far-away 
shouts. 

He leaped upon his little master so frantic- 
ally, that at last, the poor boy crept up the steps 
and looked into the street. 

“Why, there is no one in sight !” he exclaimed, 

77 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


excitedly. “If we only knew which corner He 
v/as around, we might get away, Jack.” 

“Come on,” urged Jack in his plainest lan- 
guage, running a few steps down the street, and 
looking back at his master. 

“I heard Him go the other way,” whispered 
Gerald, creeping timorously after his dog. 

Jack went a few more steps. Gerald followed 
him. They proceeded this way until they turned 
into the next street. Then Jack broke into a 
run; looking over his shoulder he saw that his 
master bade fair to outrun him. 

The coal-begrimed, collarless dog, and the 
ragged boy passed unchallenged in those pov- 
erty-stricken quarters. When, after many ques- 
tions of dogs and kind-hearted women (for Jack 
could not remember quite all the bull-terrier’s di- 
rections), they reached St. James Place and their 
home, they did not pass unchallenged. Mat- 
thews refused to let them in. Gerald, with a 
laugh, put one outspread grimy hand on Mat- 
thews’ immaculate shirt-front, pushed him back, 
and dashed into the house, crying, “Mamma! 
Papa !” 

Jack was about to follow, when the black cat 
came sauntering by. She did not recognize him, 
but, true to her bullying habit, spit at him, and 
78 


The Romantic Adventures of a Fox-Terrier, 


bristled, in the delusion that she was frightening 
him. With a shriek of joy, he sprang at her and 
caught the nearest part of her in his mouth. 
This proved to be a mass of fur, that came off 
like a wig, and so choked him that he was obliged 
to let her go while he spit it out. Then she 
flashed away like a streak of lightning. He 
overtook her at the foot of the corner tree and 
nipped the end of her tail. More fur came off. 
This did not prevent his barking so fiercely that 
she was almost too frightened to climb. For a 
whole hour he sat at the foot of that tree, and 
forced her to own up that she was afraid of him. 
Then someone came out and carried him into 
the house. 

Though that very night the officers visited the 
den where Jack’s master had been confined, they 
found only the coals, and a little Jew, who said 
he had bought them “sheap.” Bill Dirk and his 
gang of sad little “kids,” had disappeared. 

A year afterward, Jack met the bull-terrier 
down in the country. He was strolling by the 
Inn, when out came the bull-terrier — fat, white, 
and with two well eyes. 

“Why, it is you!” exclaimed Jack, joyfully. 
“I am so glad to see you !” 

79 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


“Missus’ ’usband’s dead,” explained the bull- 
terrier. “And Master’s took hus ’ome.” 

“Which licked in that fight?” asked Jack. 
“Both of hus,” answered the bull-terrier, 
grimly. 

They were the best of friends until they died, 
— Jack, his Master, and the bull-terrier. 


80 


The Don Silvestro Choir-Book. 



The Don Silvestro Choir-Book, 


The boys of Mulligan's Alley, who called 
themselves the Mulligan Guards, were trying to 
play football. They knew almost nothing of the 
rules of the game, but were assuming attitudes 
which they had seen in photographs of elevens in 
shop windows. 

Cyril Howe was watching them discon- 
tentedly from the window of his bare little bed- 
room, wishing that he and his mother had not 
been obliged to move from the country to Boston. 

“Mamma!” he called out, suddenly, “mayn’t 
I just show those duffers a thing or two?” 

“No,” replied his mother, firmly. “I cannot 
allow you to play with the Guards.” 

Cyril burst into the sitting-room impetuously. 

“We have been here three weeks!” he cried, 
petulantly, “and except at school, I haven’t played 
with anyone. I must play with boys; I must 
shout and run and tussle with them, because I am 
a boy ! And the Guards are the only boys in the 
neighborhood.” 

His mother did not answer immediately. 

83 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


Cyril, watching her, felt all the anger and im- 
patience in his heart give way to shame. His 
mother’s sweet face, so pale above her mourning 
gown, was growing very white with suppressed 
feeling. 

“Shall we have a confab?” she asked pres- 
ently, as she had been wont to speak to his father. 

Cyril at once seated himself near her, as he 
often had seen his father do. 

“You are a boy,” she said, “but you are going 
to be a man. You want to be like your father, 
and the very basis of his life was self-control and 
self-conquest. That is, he gave up much that he 
wanted, because it was not best for him to have 
it. You must not play with the Guards, because 
they are bad boys. They are utterly unlike what 
I want you to be. I was obliged to take a tene- 
ment in this neighborhood because it was the 
only one of low price within walking distance of 
my pupils, and until I have paid those bills for 
papa’s sickness, we must spend as little money as 
we can. The neighborhood is wretched, but we 
are near a good school for you and the Art 
Museum and the Public Library. As long as we 
know no one in Boston and live here, you must 
play only with your most intimate friend.” 

Cyril looked quickly at his mother for her 

84 


The Don Silvestro Choir-Book. 


smile of good understanding. It came, but 
through eyes that were misty with bravely re- 
strained tears. He knew that she was thinking 
of his father’s last words. 

When Cyril was a very little boy, once, sitting 
on his father’s knee, he had said to his mother, 
sitting near them: “I admire my father most, 
because he graduated koom lowdy, and was cap- 
tain of the football team, and preaches such 
beautiful sermons now in that lovely supplis. 
But I am more intimate with you. You are my 
most intimate friend.” 

At this his father had laughed merrily, and had 
said: “She is my most intimate friend, too. 
We never shall have another like her, so we 
always must be good to her and take the best of 
care of her.” 

The last words he spoke, when he was dying, 
were to Cyril, and they were : “Be good to our 
intimate friend.” 

“Every day at school,” continued his mother, 
“you can run and shout with the boys there. 
When school is over, you may walk to meet me 
as I come from my teaching, and then we will 
find something pleasant or profitable to do. 
Perhaps, for one thing, we can visit some of the 
art schools and watch the students at work.” 
85 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


The scarlet of excitement dashed into Cyril’s 
handsome dark face. 

“I could be quite happy,” he said, “if I could 
go on with my drawing lessons.” 

He had a strong, correct sense of color and 
a great talent for drawing, of which he was ex- 
cessively fond. 

“You may draw as much as you like,” replied 
his mother. “We have come to rather dark 
days, little son. But dark days are like a gold 
mine. Everyone of them holds, perhaps, a 
bright opportunity; and if we would find it, 
we must look for it faithfully. There is one for 
you now at the Public Library. Bring your 
sketch-book and pencils.” 

Cyril sprang up gladly, and in a very few 
minutes he and his mother were going down 
the dark staircase of their tenement, on their way 
to the Library. 

The tenement below them was occupied by an 
Italian named Cristofero Antonelli. They 
thought that he lived alone, because they fre- 
quently saw the Italian woman who lived in the 
adjoining tenement, and who looked like his 
sister, carrying him his meals. As they reached 
the landing opposite his apartment, they saw that 
the door was open and that he was standing on 
86 


The Don Silvestro Choir-Book, 


the threshold. His large dark eyes were looking 
at them mournfully. As they passed, he said, in 
a sweet low voice: “The son of the good 
mudder.” As they halted involuntarily, he 
added : 

“I, too, had a handsome boy. He had the 
good mudder. Both kill one day on the cars. 
Now, I got no one. ,, 

Then he quickly stepped into his room and 
shut the door. 

When they reached the Public Library, Cyril 
and his mother went at once to the Art Depart- 
ment. Here Cyril’s interest was stimulated by 
seeing several young men and women doing 
just what he had come to do. They had books 
or portfolios of plates spread before them, and 
were drawing industriously, oblivious to every- 
thing else. He was about to do likewise, when 
his attention was attracted by the books which 
his mother had taken from the shelves for her- 
self. These were manuals of the art of illuminat- 
ing, descriptions of old, illuminated manuscripts 
and facsimiles of quaintly beautiful miniatures 
and initial letters. Cyril was enchanted by these, 
and left his own books to look at them. His 
mother, seeing him so interested, told him, in a 
low tone, the stories of many of them, and of the 
87 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


monks who worked over them, year after year, 
in their narrow Scriptoriums. 

Cyril’s imagination was taken captive. 

“Mamma !” he whispered, finally, “I am sure I 
can do that. Do let me try. Don’t you think 
that I can?” 

“You can make a beginning,” answered his 
mother. “You have tubes of the principal colors, 
and several good brushes. I cannot buy you 
vellum just now, but I can buy you a vellum 
paper which you can experiment with. We will 
take home some of these books, and you can 
come here to use what you cannot take home. 
I will make notes for you which you can under- 
stand, and help you all that I can.” 

“ The good mother,’ ” replied Cyril, quoting 
Antonelli. 

“Saturdays,” continued his mother, “we will 
go to the Museum and study the real illumina- 
tions.” 

“Lovely opportunity!” answered Cyril. 

His first attempts were crude. But as he 
really possessed great artistic talent, which his 
parents always had encouraged, and as he had 
learned to apply himself diligently, and did so a 
part of every day and evening, and as his mother 
helped him with advice and inexhaustible note- 
88 


The Don Silvestro Choir-Book. 


books, simplified to his understanding, he soon 
began to do remarkable work. 

His close companionship with his mother made 
him an object of derision to the Guards, who 
called him “Mother’s lamb.” Cyril’s only reply 
was a shrug of the shoulders, copied from An- 
tonelli’s shrug when the boys called him “Dago.” 

He saw Antonelli almost every day, and 
always stopped to speak to him. 

One day, as Cyril was coming in from the 
Library with his mother, he paused, to show 
Antonelli a beautifully-drawn initial which he 
had just finished. 

“I see somedings like dat at my artist’s,” re- 
marked Antonelli. “One painter-boy, he buy 
much ones. Much gold on dose.” 

“All but the Irish manuscripts do have gold,” 
replied Cyril ; “but I haven’t any money, so I 
have to use yellow paint, instead.” 

“I work for artists, and bookbinders, and frame- 
makers, and dose men,” continued Antonelli. 
“I gold-beater.” 

Cyril’s cheeks took on their scarlet hue. 

“How much is gold?” he asked, eagerly. 

Antonelli laughed indulgently. 

“You come my place some days. I give you 
some leaves. For my little boy.” 

89 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


“Oh! When?” asked Cyril. 

“Next Saturday,” answered Antonelli. 

When Cyril and his mother were in their 
room, he burst into a shout of joy and fun. 

“This opportunity is truly golden,” he cried. 

“Since you are so fortunate,” replied his 
mother, “I will spare you the money for a sheet 
of ‘truly’ vellum. And to-morrow afternoon, 
when you come to meet me, we will go buy it.” 

“ ‘The good mother,’ ” answered Cyril ; and 
sat down immediately to read in his note-books, 
the best way of making the gold stick to the 
vellum. 

He fell asleep that night, thinking how sweet 
his “most intimate friend” was to him ; and this 
fact made his deed of the following day all the 
more incomprehensible to himself. 

As his mother was to leave the home of her 
pupils a little later than usual, Cyril came home, 
before starting to meet her. As he passed Mulli- 
gan’s Alley, he saw the boys, with Tim Mulli- 
gan for a leader, struggling over their absurd 
football. They hailed him derisively, as usual. 

“I may be ‘mother’s lamb,’ ” he called back, in 
cool contempt, “but I can play football — which is 
more than you can do.” 


90 


The Don Silvestro Choir-Book. 


“Augh ! Go "way,” shouted Tim. “A lot yer 
can!” 

“Played punt-about when I was five,” replied 
Cyril. “My father was captain of a Harvard 
team.” 

At this, some of the boys who always secretly 
had admired Cyril, came near. 

“Give us the tip!” they said. 

Cyril never could understand how he yielded 
to the temptation. But, in a few minutes, he was 
in the thick of the alley boys, elected captain by 
acclamation, giving them “the tip,” and playing 
with all his might. 

The Guards, all save Tim, paid strictest atten- 
tion. But Tim did not suffer his removal pa- 
tiently. He announced privately, to one or two 
cronies, that he was going “to mop up the yard 
with ‘mother’s lamb.’ ” 

Now, Cyril’s father had been an “all-around 
athlete,” as well as an earnest student. He had 
made a companion of his little son, who was un- 
usually companionable and intelligent, and had 
taught him the first principles of boxing and 
wrestling. Consequently, when Tim “tackled” 
Cyril, he found his brawn was no match for 
Cyril’s brain. 

It was several minutes before the Guards real- 

9i 



A Race with a Hurricane. 


ized that their leader had met his conqueror; 
then the fight became general. Some boys 
fought for Tim, some for Cyril, some without 
excuse. Through it all, foul words poured like 
a muddy stream from the lips of the Guards, 
and showed Cyril why his mother said that they 
were bad boys. The struggle savage and long, 
was ended only by the cry, “Cheese it ! 
Peeler !” 

Then the Guards disappeared like magic, and 
Cyril was left alone. Twilight had fallen, and 
he knew that his mother must have come home. 
He was tousled and torn ; his knuckles and nose 
were bleeding. But he screwed up his courage, 
and ran upstairs to make his confession like a 
man. 

He found the rooms unlighted. When he 
called his mother, he discovered that she was not 
there. He knew that she would not stay from 
home so late without a powerful reason, because 
she always was anxious to see him after her long 
hours of absence, and be sure that all had gone 
well with him. He resolved to go to the house 
where she was daily governess, and ask if she 
were there. So, not to shame her, he hurried off 
his torn clothes, put on his very best, and washed 
off the blood from face and hands; then he 
92 


The Don Silvestro Choir-Book. 


ran all the way to Marlborough Street. Here 
he found that his mother had left the house but 
very little past her usual hour. Home again he 
ran, looking for her everywhere, seeing her 
nowhere, and found the rooms still empty. In 
despair he again rushed to the door, dreading he 
knew not what, and collided with a messenger 
boy on the threshold, who handed him a note. 

It was addressed to him, but not in his 
mother’s writing. He tore it open and read it 
with a beating heart, crushing back all sign of 
feeling, because the boy was watching him. 

“My dear little Son,” it began — “I wish I 
could have spared you the anxiety which you 
must have felt by this time. When I did not 
find you this afternoon on the corner where you 
generally wait for me, I thought that I must 
have passed you. In turning my head to look 
for you, I was knocked down by a bicyclist and 
hit by a cab. I was so dazed when someone 
picked me up, that I did not even know my name. 
So I was taken to the hospital. I was not much 
hurt, but the doctor says I must not move for 
two weeks; so it is fortunate that I am here. 
I am not suffering any pain, and my greatest 
trouble is the thought of you. We have no one 
93 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


to help us but Antonelli. Ask him if he will be 
so very kind as to make your fires all safe for 
the night, and ask his sister to bring you some- 
thing to eat when she comes to him. There is 
some money to pay them in the silver box on my 
bureau. I have written the address of the hospi- 
tal at the head of the sheet. Ask Antonelli if he 
will be so very kind as to bring you to see me 
to-morrow at two. Now be my best, brave 
boy, and remember when you go to bed all 
alone in our rooms, that mamma is thinking of 
you. Send me a note by the messenger to tell 
me that all is well with you/’ 

Cyril kept a brave front until the messenger 
had departed, then, in a wild burst of distress, 
dashed down to Antonelli. The Italian was sit- 
ting before a brazier, roasting chestnuts. Be- 
side him on a stool was his supper — spaghetti 
with tomato poured over it, and sausage stuffed 
with garlic. Cyril noted these mechanically, as 
he cried, “Oh! if I only had gone to meet my 
mother, she would not have been hurt!” 

Then he told Antonelli all about it. Antonelli 
understood, and was as kind as if Cyril 
were his own son. 

The next day he took Cyril to the hospital. 

94 


The Don Silvestro Choir-Book, 


Here Cyril was greatly relieved to find that his 
mother really was not any more hurt than she 
had said. He confessed his sin and was forgiven 
and comforted. He promised to be as brave 
as possible in keeping house by himself the next 
two weeks, with Antonelli’s sister to take care of 
the rooms. His mother was not willing that 
he should try to find the hospital alone, and as 
Antonelli could come only on the two Sundays 
which she would spend there, Cyril was limited 
to two visits. But his mother promised to write 
to him every day. Antonelli promised to take 
charge of him generally, so that Cyril parted 
from his mother with the desolate feeling of be- 
ing all alone in the world, much lightened. 

“Remember,” were his mother’s parting words, 
“I trust you.” 

Coming after his misconduct of the day be- 
fore, these words made a great impression on 
him. 

As the next day was Saturday, he went with 
Antonelli to his place of business. At first he 
was completely occupied in watching Antonelli 
beat the gold. The gold was placed between two 
leaves of parchment, layer on layer, until there 
was a pile. Then Antonelli, with regular swing 
of the arms, began to beat, keeping the gold 
95 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


always at one temperature. This is a most 
difficult craft. While watching him, Cyril’s at- 
tention was caught by the vellum. Inspecting 
them closely he perceived that these were the 
leaves of old, discarded choir-books. 

“These are very interesting,” he said to An- 
tonelli, eagerly. “Haven’t you any that I may 
take into my hand and look at ?” 

Antonelli pointed to a bundle in a corner. 
Cyril took these, curled up on a bench, and soon 
became absorbed in examining them. Antonelli 
told him that he bought them in Italy, and 
Cyril’s imagination was conjuring vivid pictures 
of the monks who inscribed these very antiphons, 
and the monks who sang them. 

Suddenly he discovered three leaves which 
had initial letters several inches in length, pre- 
pared for illumination, but not colored. They 
were exquisitely drawn in ink. They were filled 
with half figures of saints, and bordered and in- 
tertwined with acanthus leaves. In and out 
these leaves played figures of tiny animals, hares, 
dogs, apes, elephants, unicorns. An ape was 
putting a cap on a bird’s head, another keeping 
school. 

Cyril’s cheeks took on their hue of excitement ; 
his eyes glowed. 


96 


The Don Silvestro Choir-Book. 


“Oh, Antonelli!” he cried; “I could paint 
these — I know I could! Please let me. Don’t 
waste them on gold beating!” 

Antonelli looked at the handsome boy, and 
his generous heart took fire. 

“I rich,” he said, “and no ones take my 
moneys but Tessa’s childs. Look ! For my boy 
I give you the leaves. I give you some gold. 
I know some color mans. I buy you so beauti- 
ful paints ver’ cheap. When you painted dose, I 
sell dem for you to the artist I told you buys 
much ones like dose. Then you have the 
moneys for the good mudder when she comes 
home.” 

Cyril shouted with delight. He seized An- 
tonelli’s hands and danced around him. 

“What a brick you are!” he cried. “A gold 
brick! To-morrow I will show them to her, 
but I will not tell her what I mean to do with 
them. Do you think you could get those paints 
to-day?” 

“I will,” replied Antonelli. And he did. 

When Cyril’s mother saw the leaves, she was 
as delighted with them as Cyril. 

“These letters were drawn by a real artist,” 
she said. “What ignorant person sold them, I 
wonder. And, oh! Cyril, these small writings 
97 


A Race with a Hurricane* 


on the margin, in Latin, are the directions from 
the scribe to the illuminator, telling him just 
what colors to use. I will translate, and do you 
write down what I read/’ 

Absorbed in an occupation so much to his 
taste, Cyril passed through the two weeks of his 
mother’s absence with much less loneliness than 
he had expected. Every evening Antonelli came 
to sit with him while he worked, and smoked 
cigars, that looked to Cyril a foot long. He lis- 
tened unweariedly to all the tales which Cyril 
told him of the ancient illuminators, and some- 
times was of great assistance. He conferred 
with a friend who was a bookbinder, and learned 
much of the best way to make the gold stick to 
the vellum. Cyril worked with wonderful deli- 
cacy and precision, and rarely made a mistouch. 

On the evening of the day that they were fin- 
ished, a few days before Mrs. Howe’s return, 
Antonelli invited the artist who he thought 
would buy, to come and inspect the leaves. 
They were spread on the table in Antonelli’s 
room. 

“I make dis bargain,” he said to Cyril, as he 
led him to a seat in a dark corner. “You sit still 
and say noding.” 

The artist was young, frank, enthusiastic. 

98 


The Don Silvestro Choir-Book, 


Cyril liked him immediately. He looked at the 
leaves a long time in silence, until at last, some- 
thing he saw on one of them, called forth an 
exclamation of delight. 

“I was sure of it !” he exclaimed. “An- 
tonelli,” he continued, “these leaves are very val- 
uable. I cannot afford to buy them of you, but 
I know a collector who can, and I will get the 
price for you.” 

“How much ?” asked Antonelli. 

“If they are the work of Don Silvestro — and 
I am sure they are, for on one leaf I find his 
initials — they are worth several hundreds of 
dollars.” 

Cyril sprang to his feet, but Antonelli made an 
imperative gesture to him to sit down. 

“Who he?” asked Antonelli. 

“A monk who lived in Italy, in the fourteenth 
century, who illuminated manuscripts, and es- 
pecially choir-books. It is recorded that leaves 
of these often were stolen; and in fact, of the 
several copies preserved, hardly one is perfect. 
This is his work, certainly. The saints show 
the influence of Giotto, and these little drole- 
ries show the influence of the French school, 
which at that time was making its way in Italy. 
The colors are fresh, but the Italians knew the 
99 


Lott- 


A Race with a Hurricane. 


secret of making them last. Where on earth did 
you get these?” 

“Don Silvestro, he did ’em sure, I guess,” re- 
plied Antonelli. 

While the conversation had been going on, 
Cyril had been battling with himself. Hundreds 
of dollars would pay those debts that were mak- 
ing his mother so unhappy. And, moreover, he 
shrank from putting Antonelli to shame, when he 
had been so kind. But his mother’s words, 
“Remember! I trust you!” suddenly seemed to 
ring in his ears like a bell. 

He sprang to the middle of the room. Before 
Antonelli could stop him, he had told the artist 
all about his work, from the time he first went to 
the Library. 

“Impossible!” the man said, once or twice, as 
he looked at the leaves. At length, he said to 
Antonelli : 

“I thought you were an honest man !” 

Antonelli showed his beautiful teeth in a 
lovely smile. 

“It was to make moneys for the sick mudder. 
She so good, so brave. He little fool !” 

When he had heard more about the sick 
mother, the artist promised to sell the leaves for 
as much as he could. 


The Don Silvestro Choir-Book. 


When Cyril’s mother came home, she found 
fifty dollars in the silver box, and a great joy 
at having been able to place them there, in her 
little son’s heart. They were in gold, to show 
her another “truly” golden opportunity had come 
out of a dark day. 

And more came after that. For the artist 
was so impressed with Cyril’s talent and honesty 
that he took him for a pupil. 

His mother, relieved of much of the care of 
him, was able to do more work, and pay what 
she owed much sooner than she had expected 
to do. And so, gradually, brighter days came to 
them and they were very happy. But they never 
forgot Antonelli, who was their friend all his life. 


THE END. 


m 


t 




l 

l 


SOME PUBLICATIONS OF THE 


ADVERTISING AGENTS’ DIRECTORY, THE. Cloth. One Dol- 
lar. (In preparation.) 

AFLOAT WITH OLD GLORY. By H. V. Warren. Cloth, 12mo. 

One Dollar. 

AMERICAN ELOQUENCE. By Carlos Martyn. (In preparation.) 
AMERICAN WOMEN OF THE TIME. Revised to date and edited 
by Mr. Charles F. Rideal, Mrs. John King Van Rensselaer and 
Dr. Carlos Martyn. Cloth. $7.50. (In preparation.) 

ARICKAREE TREASURE, THE. By Albert G. Clarke. Cloth, 
12mo. One Dollar. 

AT THE TEMPLE GATES. By J. Stewart Doubleday. Cloth, 
12mo. One Dollar. 

AUNT LUCY’S CABIN. By E. R. Turner. Cloth. Fifty Cents. 
BALLADS OF BROTHERHOOD. By Alphonso Alva Hopkins. 

Cloth, small 12mo, 84 pages. Fifty Cents. 

BEAUTIFUL HAND OF THE DEVIL, THE. By Margaret Hob- 
son. Cloth, small 12mo. Fifty Cents. 

BOBTAIL DIXIE. By Abbie N. Smith. Cloth, 12mo. One Dollar. 
BRITANNIA; OR, THE WHITE QUEEN. By the Rev. South G. 

Preston. Cloth, 12mo. One Dollar. 

BY THEIR FRUITS. By Edith M. Nicholl. Cloth, 12mo. One 
Dollar. 

CANDLE LIGHT, A, AND OTHER POEMS. By Louis Smirnow. 

Cloth. One Dollar. 

CASE OF EXPEDIENCE, A. By Marie E. Richard. Cloth, 12mo. 

One Dollar. 

CAT TALES IN VERSE. By Elliott Walker. Cloth, with cover 
designed by C. H. Rowe. Fifty Cents. 

CAVALIER POETS. By Clarence M. Lindsay. Cloth, small 12mo. 
Fifty Cents. 

CHARLES DICKENS’ HEROINES AND WOMEN FOLK. By 

Charles F. Rideal. With two drawings by Florence Pash. 
Cloth. Fifty Cents. 

CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND KINDRED SUPERSTITIONS. By the 

Rev. Charles F. Winbigler. Cloth, 12mo. One Dollar. 
CHRIST’S MESSAGE TO THE CHURCHES. By William M. 

Campbell. Cloth, 12mo, 170 pages. One Dollar. 

CITY BOYS’ LIFE IN THE COUNTRY; OR, HOWARD AND 
WESTON AT BEDFORD. By Clinton Osgood Burling. Illus- 
trated. Cloth, 12mo. One Dollar. 

COALS OF FIRE. By M. Frances Hanford Delanoy. Cloth, 12mo. 
One Dollar. 

CONCHITA’S ANGELS. By Agnes Camplejohn Pritchard. Cloth, 
12mo, 216 pages. One Dollar. 

CONSPIRACY OF YESTERDAY, A. By Mical Ui Niall. Cloth, 
12mo, daintily produced, 75 pages. Fifty Cents. 
CONTINENTAL CAVALIER, A. By Kimball Scribner. Cloth, 
12mo, 258 pages. One Dollar. 

CORDELIA AND OTHER POEMS. By N. B. Ripley. Cloth, small 

12mo. Fifty Cents. 

COUNCIL OF THREE, THE. By Charles A. Seltzer. Cloth, 12mo, 
177 pages. One Dollar. 


ABBEY PRESS, 114 Fifth Ave., New York 


SOME PUBLICATIONS OF THE 


COUNTRY STORE WINDOW, A. By Herbert Holmes. Cloth, 

12mo. One Dollar. 

CRIME OF CHRISTENDOM, THE. By Daniel Seelye Gregory, 
L.D., LL.D. Cloth, 12mo, 830 pages. $1.50. 

CROSS OF HONOR, THE. By Charles F. Rideal and C. Gordon 
Winter. Second Edition. One Dollar. 

CURIOUS CASE OF GENERAL DELANEY SMYTHE, THE. By 
W. H. Gardner, Lieutenant-Colonel U. S. A. (retired). Cloth, 
12mo. Illustrated, 204 pages. One Dollar. 

DANGER SIGNALS FOR NEW CENTURY MANHOOD. By Ed- 
ward A. Tabor. 12mo, cloth bound, 316 pages. One Dollar. 
DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE, THE. By Elizabeth Bryant John- 
ston. Cloth, 12mo. One Dollar. 

DEFEATED, BUT VICTOR STILL. By William V. Lawrence. 

Cloth, 12mo, 424 pages. One Dollar. 

DEMOCRACY AND THE TRUSTS. By Edwin B. Jennings. 

Cloth, 65 pages. Fifty Cents. 

DEVOUT BLUEBEARD, A. By Marie Graham. Cloth, 12mo, 300 

pages. One Dollar. 

DIABOLICAL IN SCRIPTURE AND IN HUMAN LIFE, THE. By 

Harold Stormbrow, D.D., LL.D. Cloth, Svo, limited edition. 
Ten Dollars. (In preparation.) 

DIP IN THE POOL, A. — (Bethesda.) By Barnetta Brown. 

Cloth (Miniature), daintily produced. Twenty-five Cents. 
DOCTOR JOSEPHINE. By Willis Barnes. Cloth, 12mo. One 
Dollar. 

DOCTRINE OF THE BOOH OF ACTS, THE. By G. L. Young. 
Cloth, 12mo. One Dollar. 

DOLINDA AND THE TWINS. By Dora Harvey Munyon. Cloth, 
12mo. Seventy-five Cents. 

DOOMED TURK, THE; OR, THE END OF THE EASTERN QUES- 
TION. By E. Middleton. Cloth. Fifty Cents. 

EGYPTIAN RING, THE. By Nellie Tolman Sawyer. Cloth, 
small 12mo. Fifty Cents. 

EVERYDAY CHILDREN. By Mrs. May C. Emmel. Cloth. Fifty 

Cents. 

EXPERIENCE. “How to Take It: How to Make It.” By Bar- 
netta Brown. Cloth (Miniature), daintily produced. Twen- 
ty-five Cents. 

FEATHER’S WEIGHT, A. By Amarala Martin. Cloth, small 
12mo, 131 pages. Fifty Cents. 

FIGHTING AGAINST FATE. By Moses D. Morris. Cloth, 12mo, 
275 pages, with one hundred illustrations. One Dollar. 
FLOWER OF THE TROPICS, A, AND OTHER STORIES OF 
MEXICO AND THE BORDER. By Warner P. Sutton. Cloth, 
12mo, 121 pages, daintily printed and bound. One Dollar. 
FOUNDATION RITES. By Lewis Dayton Burdick. Cloth, 12mo. 
$1.50. 

FROM CLOUDS TO SUNSHINE; OR, THE EVOLUTION OF A 
SOUL. By E. Thomas Kaven. Cloth, 12mo, 182 pages. One 
Dollar. 


ABBEY PRESS, 114 Fifth Ave., New York. 




SOME PUBLICATIONS OF THE 


FROM THE FOUR WINDS. By Warren B. Hutchinson. Cloth, 

small 12mo. Fifty Cents. 

GLOBE MUTINY, THE. By William Lay, of Saybrook, Conn., 
and Cyrus M. Hussey, of Nantucket. Cloth, 12mo, 163 pages. 
Seventy-five Cents. 

GREAT BREAD TRUST, THE. By W. H. Wright. Cloth, Min- 
iature Series, 54 pages. Fifty Cents. 

GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD, THE. By Henry Drum- 
mond. Cloth, with photograph and biographical sketch of the 
author. Fifty Cents. 

GREEN VALLEY. By T. P. Buffington. Cloth, 12mo, 151 pages. 
One Dollar. 

HALF HOUR STORIES. By Dora Harvey Munyon. Cloth, 12mo, 

148 pages. One Dollar. 

HANDFUL OF RHYMES, A. By Lischen M. MiUer. Cloth, 

12mo. $1.50. 

HEART’S DESIRE, THE. “The Moth for the Star; The Night 
for the Morrow.” By Barnetta Brown. Cloth (Miniature), 
daintily produced. Twenty-five Cents. 

HEROINE OF SANTIAGO, THE; OR, WHAT FOLLOWED THE 
SINKING OF THE MERRIMAC. By Antoinette Sheppard. 
Cloth, 12mo. One Dollar. 

HOCH DER KAISER. Myself und Gott. By A. McGregor Rose 
(A. M. R. Gordon). Fully illustrated by Jessie A. Walker. 
Cloth, 12mo. Fifty Cents. 

HOUSE OF A TRAITOR, THE. By Prosper MerrimSe. With 
photograph and biographical sketch of the author. Cloth. 
Fifty Cents. 

HOW TO ENJOY MATRIMONY; OR, THE MONOGAMIC MAR- 
RIAGE LAW AMENDED BY TRIAL-EXPIRATION CLAUSE. 

By Rose Marie. Cloth. Twenty-five Cents. 

HOW TOMMY WAS CURED OF CRYING. By Gertrude Mitchell 
Waite. Cloth, fully illustrated and daintily produced. Fifty 
Cents. 

INTELLECTUAL PEOPLE. By William Adolphus Clark. Cloth, 
small 12mo, 97 pages. Fifty Cents. 

INTERNATIONAL DIRECTORY OF AUTHORS, THE. With a 
full list of their works, dates of publication, etc. Compiled 
and edited by Charles F. Rideal and Carlos Martyn. 

IRON HAND, THE. By Howard T. Smith. Cloth, 12mo. One 
Dollar. 

JONAS BRAND; OR, LIVING WITHIN THE LAW. By Jane 

Valentine. Cloth, 12mo, well printed and bound, 263 pages. 
One Dollar. 

KEY-WORDS AND PHRASES OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. By 

the Rev. South G. Preston. Cloth, 12mo. One Dollar. 

LIFE’S SPRINGTIME. By J. N. Fradenburgh. Cloth, 12mo. One 
Dollar. 

LIQUID FROM THE SUN’S RAYS. By Sue Greenleaf. Cloth, 
12mo. One Dollar. 

LITERARY LIFE. Five Cents per copy or Fifty Cents per an- 
num, mailed free. 


ABBEY PRESS, 114 Fifth Ave., New York. 


J 


SOME PUBLICATIONS OF THF 


LITTLE COURT OF YESTERDAY, A. By Minnie Reid French. 

Cloth, 12mo, 232 pages. One Dollar. 

LITTLE CRUSADERS, THE. By Isabel S. Stone. Cloth, 12mo. 
One Dollar. 

LITTLE SCARECROW, THE. By Maurus Jokai. Cloth. Fifty 

Cents. 

LODGING IN THE NIGHT, A. By Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Cloth. Fifty Cents. 

LOST LOUISIANA, THE. By J. Kellogg. Cloth, 12mo. One 
Dollar. 

LOVE AND PRIDE. Bv R. R. Napoliello. Cloth. Fifty Cents. 
LOVE’S RANDOM SHOT. By Wilkie Collins. Cloth. Fifty 

Cents. 

MAGISTRACY, THE. Being a Directory and Biographical Dic- 
tionary of the Justices of the Peace of the United States. 
Compiled and edited by Charles F. Rideal and Carlos Martyn. 

(In preparation.) 

MAN WITHOUT THE OATH, THE. By Olive C. Tobey. Cloth, 
12mo, fully illustrated. One Dollar. 

MASTER AND MAN. By Count Tolstoy. With photograph and 
biographical sketch of the author. Cloth. Fifty Cents. 

MEN, WOMEN, AND LOVING. By Barnetta Brown. Cloth 
(Miniature), daintily produced. Twenty-five Cents. 

MISS PENELOPE’S ELOPEMENT, AND OTHER STORIES. By 
Katherine Miles Cary. Cloth, small 12mo. Fifty Cents. 
MISTAKES OF AUTHORS, THE. By Will M. Clemens. Cloth, 
12mo. One Dollar. 

MISTRESS OF MANY MOODS, A. Translated by Charlotte Board- 
man Rogers. Cloth, small 12mo. Fifty Cents. 

MUSICAL REFORMATION, A. By John A. Cone. Twenty-five 

Cents. 

MYSTERY OF THE MARBLETONS, THE; A Romance of Reality. 
By M. Mackin. Cloth, small 12mo, daintily produced. Fifty 
Cents. 

NARRAGANSETT PEER, THE. By George Appleton. Cloth, 
12mo. One Dollar. 

NEW DON QUIXOTE, THE. By Mary Pacheco. Cover design by 
C. H. Rowe. Cloth, 12mo. One Dollar. 

NEW ENGLAND FOLK. By Mrs. C. Richmond Duxbury. Cloth, 
12mo, 295 pages. One Dollar. 

NEW SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON, THE. By Helen Pomeroy. 
Cloth, 12mo. One Dollar. 

NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY, A. By Elizabeth Milroy. 
One Dollar. 

N’TH FOOT IN WAR, THE. By Lieut. M. B. Stewart, U. S. 

Army. Cloth, 12mo. Attractively designed cover. One Dollar. 
OCTAVIA, THE OCTOROON. By J. F. Lee. Cloth. Fifty Cents. 
ODD JEWEL, AN. A Postnuptial Tale of a World-wide Passion. 
By Warren M. Macleod. Cloth, small 12mo, 159 pagee. Fifty 
Cents. 

OLD GRAHAM PLACE, THE. By Etta M. Gardner. Cloth. 
Fifty Cents. 


ABBEY PRESS, 114 Fifth Ave., New York. 





DEC 261900 
















* 














